


Sworn by the Noose

by gnosiophobic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Continuation, F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No matter what you do, you're forsaking one vow or the other.</i>
</p><p>After finding Jaime at Pennytree, Brienne must make a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brienne I

**Author's Note:**

> So last time I set out to write a multi-chapter story, I really wasn't sure where it was going or how it would ultimately end. This time, I've learned from my mistake and I am very relieved to say that (after an embarrassingly long time) this story is actually complete and each chapter is just waiting to be posted (after some ridiculously obsessive editing, of course).
> 
> Also, I realize all I write is boring canon-compliant stuff, and I know exploring post-ADWD possibilities has been done a million-and-one times before, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone, so here's my take anyway. Is it too shippery and unrealistic? Probably, but I sure don't care. I should also mention that this story may take some kind of unexpected twists and turns that I don't really want to spoil, and as such, I will leave the tags ambiguous.
> 
> As always, your comments and constructive criticisms are very, very welcome. I mean, who can expect to get better at something when they don't know their previous mistakes?
> 
> Enough of my rambling. Enjoy!
> 
>   
> This lovely banner was created by the talented [Ro Nordmann](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com)

_So many wrong turns.  So many avoided trails.  But it all leads to her._   No matter where she ran or how long she took, the mangled, decaying face of Catelyn Stark appeared, haunting every turn.  The woman’s eyes nothing but two sunken black holes in a rotten skull, her skin grayed, and wrinkled as a prune.  And the old, bloodied gashes..  _Hang them._   Her voice was once that of a mother’s, so kind and loving.  But now the words hissed in her head, coarse, sucking and rattling.  _Choose..  Oathbreaker.._

Ser Jaime swung before her, hands bound and neck nearly snapped by the rope.  His legs desperately kicked, bumping into the lifeless bodies of Hyle Hunt and Podrick Payne dangling beside him.

“No!” she cried.  But Stoneheart turned away, leaving her there to watch, to mourn.  Oathkeeper laid beside her, shattered in hundreds of tiny pieces, and Jaime’s kicking slowed until it stopped.  _It should be me with my legs dangling, taking my final breath.._   Like a lost child, she began to weep.

 

A large hand pulled at her, and with a gasp, she forced her eyes open. In the morning sun, Jaime leaned over her.  Golden hair, and slight, growing stubble on a handsome face even more beautiful in rising light.

“Bad dream?” his voice was still rough with sleep.  Ashamed, she tore her gaze away and nodded.  The distance between them was small.  _Did he sleep this close?,_ she thought, fighting off the blush surging in her cheeks.

“You look warm, my lady, but the air is quite cold.”  His fingertips barely grazed her forehead, just below the hairline forcing a breath to catch in her throat.  “A fever dream, then,” he said with certainty.  And she knew it was true.  Each night, no matter how hard the snow may fall or the wind may chap her cheeks, she awoke wet from fever, from worry, from dread.

But that was the least of it.  Her body ached, her bones screamed, and she could feel the persistent, angry pulse in her cheek where she’d been bit.  She hadn’t dared remove the bandage yet, the same one the girl, Long Jeyne, had so delicately placed.

Still, Jaime assessed her, his eyes darting over her face, her broken body, with brow furrowed.  She felt large, ungainly under his discerning eye, and she moved to stand, despite the ache howling from every muscle and bone.

“You’re not well,” he said, as though it were fact, as though it might change something.  _The Myrish priest was certain my fever had broken, and Jaime is no maester._ Defiantly, she gathered the fur blanket and folded it neatly.

“We should leave soon,” Brienne announced.  _Though where we’ll head today, only the Gods know._   She’d taken so many twists and turns through the woods, prolonging her return to the Brotherhood camp, she was no longer sure exactly where they were.  And Jaime was suspect, which only added to her worry.

But she’d kept quiet, knowing if she opened her mouth, only more lies would come out.  _Or worse yet,_ she thought, _the truth._

And as the days wore on and saddle sores began to bloom, Jaime had grown more suspicious.  By the third day of endless twists and turns, he had begun to ask prying questions.

“I find it rather odd that this ‘day’s ride away’ has easily become thrice that,” he had shouted at her from behind on their third night.  “If you were anyone else, I might worry I’d been kidnapped.  Though, I am beginning to doubt your ability to read a map.”

She’d scolded him then, saying he should watch the road ahead and let her worry about their path.  And he conceded, his voice soft.  “I only wonder if we’ve made a wrong turn along the way.”

_He knows_ , she remembered thinking.  Certainly he’d heard of the Brotherhood hanging Freys in the Riverlands.  He’d likely lost some of his men to their ropes.

“I know where I’m going,” she spat.  But she wouldn’t face him, she couldn’t.  She’d always been an awful liar.   _A quick glance would no doubt reveal my deceit._

And not an hour later, he had finally asked, “What in seven hells could the Hound want with the Stark girl anyway?”

Brienne had froze at that, sitting square and tense in her saddle.  Her large teeth bit at her bottom lip and her hands wrung the horse’s reigns.

“He’s a man of the Kingsguard, is he not?” she had finally said.  “Perhaps fulfilling some duty of the Queen Regent?”

“Cersei would want her alive,” Jaime said, almost bitterly.  “She’d flay the poor girl to get closer to our brother.”

“Perhaps for gold, then,” she spoke quickly, without thinking.

“Gold?" Jaime laughed.  "Say what you will about the Cleganes, but they are sworn to House Lannister.  And Father always kept his most loyal dogs well-fed.  Try again, wench.”

But Brienne had always known she sparred far better with blades than words.  This was a game she would lose if she played.

“Does it truly matter what the man wants?  Sansa Stark is in danger, and you’ve asked me to protect her.  I plan to keep that vow, Ser.”  It was another lie, but lies were all she could say, and this one had kept him quiet enough.

 

But now, sitting in the morning light, it felt as though he could read every one of her thoughts, like she was made of glass.  She tried to ignore his peering gaze, busying her hands in her satchel, searching for some dried beef.

The sun had risen hours ago, and they’d need to leave soon, and keep moving, even if it was in the wrong direction.   _Only delaying what I know I must do_ , she knew.  Still, a part of her held the hope that Lady Catelyn might listen to her pleas, that she may pardon Podrick, Hyle and Ser Jaime alike in return for Sansa’s safety, naive as it was.  The woman had been so honorable, so reasonable in life.  _But Stoneheart.._

Angrily, her cheek pulsed with each heart beat, and the longer she stood, the more she began to sway.

“We’re not traveling today.”  Jaime’s voice was sharp as a dagger.  “Not unless we’re headed to an inn for you to rest.  We should be sleeping on feathers near a fire, not on hardened dirt in the cold.”

_Not an inn_ , she thought, nervously.  _Definitely not an inn._ Jaime took a sizable bite from a small piece of dried bread before his eyes met hers, daring her to argue.

“But the Hound—“

“Will kill you if you meet him like this.  Don’t be so damned pigheaded.” he interrupted.  And he was right.  The Hound, a brother, or Stoneheart herself, it made no matter.  If anyone raised a sword to her now, she’d surely meet the Stranger.   _Perhaps that’s what I deserve_ , some small part of her whispered.

“Are you not worried someone will recognize you?” she asked, earnestly.

“I’m no longer your prisoner, you know.”

“But your place is amongst your men, or beside your King.”

“Then why beg me here?”  He shot her a pointed stare.  Brienne opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words stuck in her throat, near choking.  _Without you, we will all certainly die_ , she wanted to say.  _Podrick is a boy of ten and two, innocent, and far too young to hang._ Watching the rope tighten around his neck, and his feet flailing wildly above the ground was enough to make her scream _sword_ , to fight her way to Pennytree and nearly spit on the Lannister scouts who had jerked her by the arms.  _If not for him, I’d be long dead, and Jaime would live.._

But it was too much to think on while Jaime Lannister sat beside her, looking as though he desperately waited for some sort of explanation.

“I needed your help..” her voice was girlish and small, but it was all she could say.  And for once, it wasn’t another lie.  “Why did you follow?”

With a sigh, Jaime tore his gaze away, focusing somewhere off in the distance.

“Our mission in the Riverlands was near complete.  And King’s Landing, gods..” he huffed.  “Tommen is still my king, that much is true.  But my sister pays for her crimes, and she’s guilty of every one they throw before her.  And I’m sure you’ve heard the story of my brother and father.  The body smelled so awful poor Tommen retched in the sept.”  With a sidelong glance, she could see him trying to smile, but his face filled with disappointment, betrayal instead.  “I’ve not heard from Tyrion since.”

Brienne watched her feet, pushing them further down into the cold dirt.

"And seeing you, looking near death.." he paused, looking over her.  "It was foolish to send you alone.  The countryside is war-torn, and men would slay one another for a crumb of stale bread, and perhaps less."  As if to toast, he lifted his own piece with a half-smile.

“So you yield, then?” he tilted his head toward her.  Brienne sat in silence, taking another bite of the salted beef.  Even her jaw ached.

Jaime’s eyes were light, his mouth forming that familiar grin.

“Good,” he said.  “Finally listening to reason.  Now, I know of a place not far from here,” he continued, looking at the trees as though he knew each one.  “The Inn at the Crossroads, I believe—“

“No!”  Brienne shouted without thinking.  Her eyes widened and heart raced at the thought.

“What is it?  Not fond of the fish stew?” he chuckled.  “I found it delightful the last time I stopped by.  That fragrant aroma of their rotten cod still makes my mouth water--”

“I heard it was only a place for orphans now,” her voice shook, despite herself.

“Isn’t that a tragedy,” Jaime pouted.  “I could nearly feel the comfort of their feather beds full of tiny creatures moving beneath me.”

“No inns,” she said, definitively.  She would not allow the Brotherhood to catch her unawares yet again.  Now it wasn't some piddly misstep keeping her from finding Sansa, now there was far too much to lose, and each movement could mean her life.   _Jaime's life. Podrick's life._ _  
_

“The Quiet Isle,” she said softly.  _The one place in all the Riverlands I felt safe.  The one place untouched by the outside._ Jaime shook his head, curiosity filling his face.   “For a while, I traveled with a wandering minister and his dog.  He took me to an island near the Saltpans, where he confessed his sins as I rested.”

“A great many sins to confess, then?” Jaime asked with a smirk, staring off beyond the line of trees.

“The man was a septon.  To him, savoring a small bit of old fish stew was a sin,” she said.  Jaime snorted, and Brienne wished to laugh, but the stab in her ribs stopped her.  Instead, she studied Jaime’s grin, the slight crease bordering his emerald eyes, and how his golden hair swayed in the the gentle wind.  Abruptly, she turned away, feeling her cheeks begin to burn.

Jaime hopped to his feet, extending his arms to the sky in a long stretch.  His tunic raised slightly where his breeches sagged, exposing the skin of his hip, rigid and taut.  Again, she turned from him quickly, busying herself cleaning the camp, and desperately trying to push away the unwanted image of him shrouded by nothing but the fog of the Harrenhal bathhouse.

“If this place is near the Saltpans, we should arrive by late morning,” Jaime announced, oblivious to the deep shade of red Brienne was sure she’d become.

“Yes,” she cleared her throat.  “That sounds right.”


	2. Brienne II

“Quite a rude man, if you ask me,” she heard Jaime complain over the sounds of gentle waves crashing.  “Doesn’t even have the decency to speak when greeted,” his voice just loud enough for the silent brother to hear over the water sloshing on the sides of the old, beaten skiff. 

The tide was high when they had arrived at the Trident, with the water softly glistening in the sunlight, and crashing with the wind.  Brienne was thankful for the restless waves.  Last time she came to the isle, Septon Meribald had led them through the mud with all his twists and turns, and she'd watched her boots cake in sinking sludge, keeping a watchful eye on Podrick just ahead.

But with the heavier snowfall each night and morning melt, the water had surely not receded in weeks, and it seemed the silent brothers took note.  They’d only sat on the shore awaiting the ferry mere moments before Brienne spotted a skiff in the distance, small as a black flea on a dog’s back. Though, part of her had wanted to stay, dangling her feet in the water, sitting near Ser Jaime, as if time stood still.

“He’s a brother of the Quiet Isle,” she said through a sad smile, gazing over the sea, and admiring the way sunlight bounced off the waves.

“I suppose this is a place that prides itself on being exceptionally boring,” his voice was laced with healthy skepticism, though he’d not opposed her idea to come to the isle even once.

“Boring is fine when you wish to rest," Brienne said.  "And the brothers of the isle may only speak on one day a week, and for some, even less.  Some speak only when they confess their sins.”

“I’m sure even their sins are dull.  I can’t imagine the trouble I’d find myself in just to say a few words,” she could almost feel Jaime’s eyes on her, but his voice drifted out, mixing with the brackish water spraying the skiff’s side.

“Even you say so little,” he complained.  “Will anyone on this dreadful island keep me company?”

“The Elder Brother may speak.  Unless you offend him, too.”  Briefly, she glanced at him, his face light and almost boyish.

“Perhaps I should act more like the silent brothers, then.  Keeping my head down, my back red with welts, and my mouth shut.”

“Impossible,” Brienne quipped, biting her lip.  And Jaime laughed heartily.  The sound was musical, bittersweet, and made her heart sink and race. 

Brienne bowed to the brother in thanks as the skiff ground against the sandy shore of the isle.  Under the shadows of his threadbare hood, Brienne could see he was a short man with a snub nose and missing teeth.  And somehow she swore the man looked upon her with a certain hollow softness, with pity.  _For my face, body, or wounds, it makes no difference._   Not a fortnight ago, she’d been strung up in a tree by the noose around her neck with Hyle and poor, young Podrick swinging, twitching and kicking beside her.

_Choose.._

“The Maiden of Tarth!” a familiar voice exclaimed as she stepped from the ferry onto the muddy shore of the isle.  The Elder Brother was just as tall as she remembered, his shaven head leading him, with long woolen robe dragging behind.  “By the Gods, you look as though you’ve traveled through all of the seven hells since I’d seen you last,” he reached for her hand, grasping it warmly.  “Yet, here you are, once again.”

Perhaps his words should have stung, and might have once, when she was younger, like harsh reminders of the lessons her Septa taught her.  Now, they rolled off her back, like beads of water on a duck feather. She was not born a beauty, and had only drifted further from it with each new scar.  _And soon I’ll be dead_ , she quickly tried to push the thought away.

“It’s great to see you again, ser,” she said, sincerely.  “I hope I don’t impose when I ask for a place to rest and heal.”  She cursed her voice for sounding so girlish and weak.  But the man smiled, kindly, with the slightest bit of sorrow.

"And this is--"

"Ser Jaime Lannister," he said, with a bit of mistrust.  The Elder Brother stiffened a bit at the name.   _Why would he give it so freely?_

"The Lion of Lannister," the brother finally spoke.  "Countless tales I've heard of you, ser."

"Only the best, I'm sure," his voice little more than a sneer.

"It's the Father's place to judge, certainly not mine."  Turning to Brienne, he assessed her warily before making long strides towards the Women's Cottages.  "I suppose I shouldn't need to ask, but you aren't wed, are you?"

"No," Brienne spoke quickly.  "Of course not."  The question struck her odd, but she watched her large feet, not willing to see the awful look surely wrought upon Jaime's face.

"Her title of maid would be quite the lie if we were," Jaime said rather plainly, and Brienne could feel the slight burn beginning in her cheeks.   _Why does he say such ridiculous things?_    Still, she focused on the movement of her feet through the soft dirt, and ignored the steady pound in her chest.

The small cabin was just as she remembered, rounded and made of stacked stones.  The place was modest but cozy, with furs folded tidily on the dense straw pallet.

“I’ll have a brother bring you food and supplies in a moment.   I’ll search for some wine, it may help clean open wounds,” he noted, glancing briefly at the bandage plastered on her cheek.  “Is there anything I can get for you, Lady Brienne?”

The large woman shook her head, and slumped her heavy pack on the dirt floor beside the straw pallet.

“Get some rest,” the Elder Brother advised.  "And if you need something, ask,” he gave her a pointed stare.  _The man has met me only once before, but knows me too well._ With a swift pat on her armored shoulder and an almost fatherly smile, the large man turned for the door.

“Ser Jaime,” the robed man stepped to the door.  “If you’ll follow me, I will take you to the cloisters, where the brothers sleep.”

“Thank you,” Jaime said, standing still.  “But I believe this suits me well.”  He set his jaw stubbornly and rested his heavy satchel upon the dirt ground of the cabin.

And the Brother turned to him.  The two men were of a height, though Jaime was slightly shy.  Regardless, his emerald eyes never broke from the Brother’s assessing glare, his feet never shuffled from where he stood, stubborn and firm.

“I apologize, ser, but on this isle, we have rules—“

“A great many, it seems.”

“Only those that bring us closer to the Seven.  These are the women’s cottages,” the man said, raising his arms.  “Meant for maidens, widows, and ladies otherwise unwed.  Men and women here may only share a roof if they are joined in the eyes of the Seven.”

“And I am of the Kingsguard, sworn to the King, and barely a man.”

Brienne could hear the rustle of wind the in the trees outside, a bird calling out into the air as she watched his satchel sitting defiantly on the ground.

Jaime stood straight, his jaw near clenched, never tearing his gaze away.  Finally, the Elder Brother turned to her before looking upon his feet.  The man may have been a knight in some past life, but now it seemed he knew better than to keep his hand on the hilt.

“Stay if you must," the man said, glancing about the cabin.  "But please, sleep outside.  And don’t make it well-known.”  With a half-smile, Jaime nodded and shook the man’s large hand before the man turned to go.

"Large enough for a warrior, but wraps himself in the tattered robes of a Septon.." Jaime wondered, turning toward her.

“If you wish to stay on this island, I’d advise you not antagonize him further.”

“Were you not happy with my valiant attempt to keep you safe, my lady?” he asked with a derisive grin.  “Also, I did not _antagonize_ the man.”

“Call it what you will,” Brienne conceded, sitting upon the straw pallet, removing her boots as carefully as she could.  “Just be more careful.”

Slowly, she moved her aching arms over her opposite shoulder, reaching for the buckle of her armor.  Before, Podrick would have helped her remove the piece, but she tried not to think on the boy now, on if he still lived, chained to some old tree surrounded by the rotten smell of swinging death.

“You may ask for my help, you know,” Jaime sounded almost annoyed.  Too worn to insist otherwise,  Brienne rested her arm at her side, ignoring the burn in her arms, the stabbing in her ribs.

In a few quick strides, he stood beside her, his face mere inches away as he worked the knots and buckles, his hand working deftly on the armor, and his stump steadying him on the pallet, pushing slightly into her thigh.

A buckle on her left waist was stubborn and tight, forcing him to hover a bit closer, his breath falling upon her cheek.  _He’s so close_ , she thought.  _Close enough to touch.  Close enough to kiss._ She turned her face away from him then, angry at her body for betraying her, as her cheeks came alive with fire and her breath hitched.  _Stupid girl_ , she thought.  _Ser Jaime is a man of the Kingsguard._

“Gods,” Jaime exclaimed, breaking her thoughts.  “Did Gregor Clegane last put you in this armor?”  _No, Podrick should have_ , she thought sadly.  That morning, she had tightened the buckles before painfully mounting her horse.  The boy had shown her a simple trick to keep the clasps and knots tight, so they’d never fail when hit with even the strongest of blows.  But as many times as she’d tried, she’d never done it half as well as he.

With a tight smile, Jaime pulled the knot loose and freed the buckle before moving to the opposite side.  Brienne watched his fingers trail across the waist of her armor, with a tenderness she was sure she imagined.  Labored breaths ghosted across her ear as he tried to work the right clasp loose.  Jaime struggled with the thing for near an eternity, sitting so close their legs pressed.

_He could have moved to the opposite side_ , she thought, ignoring the frustrating way her skin burned under his touch.  Briefly, she looked at him from the corner of her eye, how his brow furrowed in irritation, his beard near glistened in the candlelight, biting his bottom lip, then brushing over it slowly with his tongue.  An annoyed sigh fell heavily upon her neck forcing her to jolt.

“Don’t move, wench,” he warned, snaking his shortened arm around her waist, holding her still.  Her heart began to race as she focused solely on breathing, on making the pattern sound somewhat normal, and not some hitched thing of gasps.  A near indecent grin crossed his face when he finally loosened the stubborn buckle.

The silent tension broke suddenly as a hammering on the wooden door echoed through the room.    _Thank the gods_ , she thought, watching Jaime stand.  Though it pained her to stretch, she leaned forward, rubbing her face with one hand, pushing away all the thoughts her Septa would have certainly chastised her for.

Gently, Jaime placed the divested armor upon the ground before opening the door to a silent brother carrying a basket of supplies and another with a tray of warm food.  With a reluctant smile, Jaime thanked them, and the two brothers nodded before turning to leave.

“My dear family wouldn’t last an hour in this place,” he said, mostly to himself as he closed the door.  As Jaime busied himself rifling through the supplies and food, Brienne hurriedly loosened the buckles on her inner thighs.  _I can’t let him touch me there_ , even if her breeches still stood between them, even if some small, buried part of her wanted him to.

With a shrug, Jaime turned back to her.  “Where was I?” he asked, reaching for her left foot, trailing his hand along the armor’s inner seam, up to her thigh.

“I already did the top ones,” her voice nearly caught in her throat.

“Pity,” he sighed.  “I was saving those for last,” he glanced at her slowly before loosening the buckle on her left ankle.  Brienne said nothing, her voice paltry, and forgotten, and heard only the steady pound of her heart echoing in her ears.

His hand worked slowly, inching its way up her leg, one buckle at a time.  And once all the buckles were loose, he ran his hand under the armor, breaking it free.  His touch was soft but just firm enough to feel a pull deep in her belly, an odd yearning between her legs, and filled her skin with gooseflesh.

He did the same with the opposite leg, moving slowly, one buckle at a time, then running his good hand beneath the armor.  But when his fingers reached the top of her inner thigh, she swore she felt a slight, soft pinch before the metal plate was removed.  Her cheeks burned, as she watched the dirt floor with heavy breaths.

Clearing his throat, Jaime stood suddenly.

“Relax, wench,” he said without looking at her, moving his hand to the door handle.  “I need to piss, then we can tend your wounds,” the last words muffled by the sound of the cabin door closing behind him .


	3. Jaime I

The harsh, cold air slapped his face with the first step outside.  _Perhaps the frigid wind will calm me_ , he thought hopefully, ignoring the tightness in his breeches and the image of Brienne’s strong legs in his head.  _It’s only been too long,_ he knew.

Reluctantly, he thought of Cersei.  The last time he’d taken her, joining unashamed before the Seven in the Great Sept, before their dead king and son.  _Before I knew her better, before she sent me away, and before I burnt her desperate plea.._

Some nights he’d close his eyes and see the parchment in Peck’s hand before it landed in the fire.  _I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you._ Her words turned to lying whispers in the ashes.

He’d been celibate since that day in the Sept.  And he’d begun to notice other women as well.  Camp followers, timid whores, noble ladies, even Brienne who had more a woman’s shape than he remembered.  Her waist smaller, hips more full, her hair a bit longer, but breasts still meager.  Though, all of it could have been imagined, he knew.  The wench kept herself more covered than a silent sister.

_How do the men of the Kingsguard manage even the slightest temptation?_   The thought was a naive one.  Most of them kept their nights a secret.  _And how many settled themselves between my sister’s thighs instead?_  


They were no longer the honorable men who followed Ser Duncan the Tall or Arthur Dayne.  _The Kingslayer commands them now,_ he thought with a snicker.

But Ser Jaime Lannister stood outside a cabin on a secret isle, traveling with a maid stripped of her armor.

With a sigh, he leaned against the outside wall, his breath forming wispy clouds in the cold air.  On the other side, he could hear Brienne shuffling, dropping things and cursing quietly.  _Tending her wounds before I return, no doubt_ , he thought.  _Stupid, stubborn wench._ But she had the right of it.  He’d seen the deep shade of red in her cheeks, the way she gasped when he’d held her still.

Gentle snow began to fall as he walked from the cabin to a line of trees.   _I needed your help.._ her soft voice echoed in his head.  _And not for stroking her thighs_ , he thought.

Still, her words haunted him.  The wench had been nothing if not cryptic.  Certainly not the hulking warrior so bound by oaths and vows it made her shoulders hunch like some self-loathing silent brother.

_She’s hiding something_ , he’d known that all along.  _But what?_

Clumsily, he unlaced his breeches one-handed and nearly screamed when the cold air washed over his cock.  Whatever excitement that time and thoughts of his unfaithful sister couldn’t calm, the frigid air surely did.  And, for once, he was thankful for it.

 

“I’ve dressed my own wounds, ser,” she stated as soon as his boot passed over the stony threshold.  _How surprising._

She was seated upon the straw bed, wrapped in furs as close to the fire as she could get.  “You won’t need to bother.”

“Can you even see all of them? ” he muttered, looking over her defiantly, her long legs stretched out over the pallet.

The wench was covered in bruises, gashes, and angry scars, but she had bandaged the worst of them with unsullied white gauze.  Except the mysterious one on her cheek.  Its bandage was still old, dirtied, and stained with dried blood, and pained him to look upon.

“You missed that one,” he pointed to her face.  For a moment, her eyes widened.

“It’s fine.  I replaced it this morning.”

“It’s not,” he said, rifling through the basket of supplies.  “The thing is all crusted and filthy, it should be cleaned.”  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brienne’s fingertips lightly brush over the bandage, how her eyes winced at the softest touch.  With a frustrated huff, he grabbed the large basket, tossing it onto the bed, then sat slowly beside it.

“Come here,” he said softly, resting his stump on the bed beside her hip and reaching his hand for the bandage.

“It’s hideous, I’m sure,” she said.  “Not that I needed any help.”  He ignored that, gently prying the the old cotton away from her skin.  

“Not hideous,” he said.  “But certainly intimidating.”  Unaware, his lip curled as each movement made a sickly squish.

“Gods,” he muttered, tearing the last bit away.  The old bandage was covered in blood and pus, and from the look of it, the dressing had been festering on her cheek for days.

“How bad is it?” her eyes closed, either in pain or sadness.  _Dreadful._ An angry thing of red and yellow, blood and infection, scooped fiercely from her skull.

“It will heal in time,” his voice much calmer than he felt.  “How did it happen?” he asked, reaching for a clean cloth.  Brienne paused and took in a long breath.

“I was bitten.”

_Yes, I know._ They were the first words to leave her lips when she met him at Pennytree, tangled in ropes and his scouts’ arms, looking near dead.  That night, she was no longer the naive girl he remembered.  She was beaten and battered, worn and used.

“An animal did this?” he pried.  She paused again.

“An animal may have been gentler, I think.”  _A man did this?_   Guilt stabbed at him like a dagger just thinking of such a thing.  A monstrous creature, barely a man, pinning her to the ground, taking her flesh into his gruesome mouth and carelessly ripping it away.  Disgusted, he felt his stomach lurch.

“Now you know the truth of it.  The mouths of men are filthy,” it was meant as a jape, but neither of them laughed.

Tearing his gaze from the wound, he popped the cork on the wine from their forgotten dinner and soaked a second cloth.  “This will sting, my lady,” he warned.  And she grimaced when he pressed it against her.

_Three broken betrothals_ , he studied the wound, watching drops of wine tangle in its maze.  _None of them kind._   Swiftly, his thoughts turned to Ronnet Connington, to the surprise on his face when he’d hit the ground.

_Brienne the Beauty_ , he called her.

What awful fate did the Seven hold for her now?  Some hulking beast of a man who would not look upon her when he shared her bed, who found his pleasure chasing whores and servant girls around the keep?  _Boars would be gentler_ , he thought sadly, cleaning the last bit of dried blood from her cheek.

_Another scar_ , he thought. _One more ugly thing in the eyes of cruel men.  One more loathsome thing to torture herself with thoughts of._

_And I’m to blame._


	4. Brienne III

Night had fallen hours ago, the candlelight under which they supped had begun to fade, and even the embers in the modest fireplace dimmed.  This was how he’d left her, all cleaned and fed, but bewildered.  She’d felt his hands upon her thigh, his arm wrapped around her waist.  But that was before he tended to her cheek.

_I didn’t want him to see it_ , she thought.  His face had wrinkled in horror, his fingers had worked far too cautiously.  There was no tenderness in his touch, no gentle caress, not even a sign of pity.  Not that she wanted his pity.

Then they’d supped in near silence, commenting only on the food and hospitality before he took his leave for the night.

_It’s not some new thing_ , she consoled herself.  He could give her his sword, trust her with his honor, but he’d never find her sweet to look upon.  And truly, it made no matter.  _He’s a dying man, a dead man, even if he doesn’t yet know it._   The thought left a bitter taste on her tongue as she watched the glowing of embers slowly die.

 

When she finally slept, it was fitful, painful.  She’d dreamt of Ser Jaime’s head upon a wooden stick lining the King’s Road, his hair damp with blood as maggots chewed the flesh of his cheek.  His rotten eyes seemed to watch her as she stood.

Hyle Hunt’s steak was next along the darkened path, his mouth opened wide to show his tongue had been cut out.  It laid beside him, giving fodder to the crows.

Then she’d dreamt of Podrick Payne crying out to her as he took his final, jagged breaths, toes dangling mere inches from the ground.  Futilely, she tried to go to him, with Oathkeeper raised far above her head, but something unseen held her back, anchored her feet to the ground.  It felt almost like teeth.  Dozens of them, and sharp, biting into her flesh.  A faceless crowd surrounded her, endlessly chanting _Kingslayer’s whore!  Kingslayer’s whore!_ And a frozen, dead hand had brushed her cheek.

 

Yet she awoke warm, in the middle of a cold night.  Gentle, paced breaths danced over the skin of her neck and a single, handless arm laid unceremoniously atop her waist.

“Jaime?” she whispered hoarsely.  With a final, loud snore, he aroused.

“Mmm?”

“They said you can’t sleep here,” she nearly panicked.  “Only men and ladies wed may share a roof.”  His eyes opened slightly, voice rough with sleep.

“You would leave me out in the cold?  I never knew you to be so cruel,” his tired mouth nearly pouted.

“We shouldn’t take the Elder Brother’s hospitality for granted.”

“Keep worrying about nonsense and you’ll soon have as many silver hairs as I.”  As though he’d not noticed his arm draped over her before, he stiffened and crossed it over his chest, and she swiftly felt the loss of his warmth.  Brienne sighed, watching her breath rise as wispy clouds in the brisk air.

“Did anyone see you?” her voice was soft, barely a whisper.

“Do you think me a bloody idiot?”

A quick shiver passed over her, sending her teeth to chatter loudly in the cold night.  Without warning, Jaime’s arm fell on her again, pulling her close.  She could feel the strong outline of his torso ghosting over her back, pushing closer with each breath.  Cruelly, her cheeks came alive, burning with fire despite the cool air.  A tense, silent moment passed before she spoke.

“What are you doing?” her voice nearly biting.

“Keeping you warm, wench.  How else does it look?”  _Improper.  Not suited for a maiden, even one as I._

“You’re only granting credence to what they called me,” she hadn’t meant to say so much, but exhaustion had made her lips far too loose.

Jaime was silent behind her, his grip still firm on her waist, paced breaths landing lightly on her nape.  Brienne prayed he’d already found sleep.  And that in the morning, he’d be gone, and all would be forgotten.

“Who?”  She shuffled at the word, with his voice raw, and his lips so close to her neck she swore she could feel their brush.

“No one,” she said hastily.

Callused fingertips traced the burn emblazoned on her neck, gentle, but with just enough pressure to sting.  Her breath caught in her throat at his touch.  “The men who did this to you?” he prodded.  “You’ve told me so little.”

Brienne screwed her eyes shut, brow furrowed, as though hiding from the night.  A heavy silence settled between them, pushing her farther into the straw bed, making her arms leaden and her legs weak.  And for a moment, she wished she could disappear in the pallet, close her eyes, and bury herself in falsehoods and half-truths.

Curiously, Jaime’s fingers charted the marks of red lining her neck, bringing forth the memories she had tried to push away.  She nearly shuddered at the thought, remembering the rope biting into her neck, tight and cold, like the Stranger’s own hands.  Her lips quivered, anxious for another lie, anxious for the truth.  Finally, she spoke.

“I had decided to stay at an inn, to rest and eat for one night before continuing the search for Sansa.”   _More lies.._ “Unfortunately, a group of bandits had claimed the inn where I stayed.  They found me in the yard that day.  I pulled my sword and fought, but there were so many.  Tired as I was from my journey, I was near delirious when a large man pushed me to the ground and sunk his teeth into my cheek.  He wrapped his hands around my neck so tight, it left this.”  Gently, her fingers traced the bright burn of rope.  _And I yelled for you that day.  I screamed for you to come save me_ , she remembered, grabbing her blanket with a fist.

“The men, they knew me, knew who I was..  They saw my sword and..” she paused, closing her eyes.  “One said I stunk of lion.. and he called me your whore.  The Kingslayer’s whore..” her voice drifted off, nearly lost in the cold night.

It was close to the truth.  As close as she could say to him.  But each lie, no matter how small, felt like a sword plunged through her chest and out the other side, like Catelyn’s noose tightening around her neck.

She could feel Jaime shift behind her, pulling his hand away from the burn on her neck.  But she wouldn’t face him, unwilling to see the look of revulsion surely wrought upon his face.

“How would he come up with such a thing?” his tone gave no hint to however disgusted he certainly felt.

“A jape, surely.”  _One would only need to look upon my face to know the truth of it._

“Surely,” he echoed.  “Those men know nothing of your honor.”

 

\--

 

The bed was cold when she awoke the next morning, and Jaime had gone, leaving nothing but wrinkled sheets and indentions in the straw.  _Good,_ Brienne thought.  _If a someone were to catch us, I’m not sure where we’d go._ And for what?  Sleeping comfortably, staying warm?  Certainly nothing more.

Brienne stretched in the first morning light, feeling her bones scream out at the slightest shift, and her cheek red hot and pulsing near her eye.  Slowly, she pulled herself from the bed.  The room swayed as she stood, and the ground seemed to shift beneath her feet, forcing her to grab hold of the door.  Cool winds rushed inside as she pulled it open.

Not far from where she stood, Jaime danced gracefully with a sword, sparring some imagined foe with admirable skill for a man whose sword hand was lost.  The clanging of steel against oak rang out in the brisk morning air.  For a moment, she remembered their fight before they'd been captured in the brook.  He was strong and agile, then, even though captivity had worn him to little more than bone and dirt.   _Before they took his hand, before nameless men struck down one of the greatest fighters Westeros has seen with a single, careless blow._   But he was only her captive then, and their capture was nothing more than an obstacle from keeping her oath to Lady Stark.   _Nothing has changed_ , she thought bitterly, watching him dart across the clearing and land another blow, removing a low branch from the great oak he battled.

Sweat dripped from his head and back, staining his tunic, and sunlight reflected off his golden hair as it swayed with each movement.  Even from a distance, the man was magnificent.  Thoughtlessly, she thumbed the bandage still stuck to her cheek, and winced at the pressure of her fingertips on the wound.

“It’s a shame you can’t spar with me, wench,” Jaime yelled from across the clearing.  “This tree is half the partner you’d be, though nearly as tall.”  Casually, he strode toward her, a knowing grin spreading across his face.  He hadn’t shaven or even trimmed in days, she surmised, and his dusty golden beard only made his eyes more exquisite.  “And the tree likely speaks more than you, too.”

“Sorry, ser, I just awoke,” her voice some soft, meek thing.

“Slept well, then?  Inexplicably warm despite this coming winter?”  His eyes were alight.  This was the face he used to mock her, to jape.  “I haven’t the faintest idea why that might be.  It’s so dreadfully cold, especially at night.”  Every movement he made seemed to shout _I told you so, you stubborn wench._ And truthfully, sleeping in the same bed had been practical.  _And shortsighted._ She sent him a threatening glance, hoping he would take his quip no further.

Footsteps echoed behind her, shuffling through fallen leaves and crisp grass covered in snow yet to melt.  A silent brother wrapped in a loose woolen robe moved toward them, holding a small tray of fresh biscuits, speckled eggs and honey.

“Is it already time to eat?” Jaime asked, his voice light.

The brother said nothing as he walked to the cottage with his head down, hood covering his eyes.

“Very well, then,” Jaime said, seemingly disappointed.  “The _maid_ and I will break our fast inside the cabin.”  Theawful way he drew out the word at the brother, pulling his lips into the most smug of smiles forced a quick scowl back to her face.  

But even her scowl was another lie.  A dishonest frown that only served to hide the fire rising in her cheeks, the warmth she still felt from his chest pressing against her, and the delicate way his fingers grazed her neck in the night.  Shameful as it was, her thoughts turned to his touch far too often.


	5. Jaime II

Silently, Jaime arose from his small pallet sitting atop the cold dirt.  Only soft moonlight shined upon him as the cool air sprinkled his growing beard with bits of snow.  Nearly four nights had passed since they’d arrived on the Quiet Isle, and each night began just as this.  Laying awake and watching the stars until the isle hushed to nothing more than the soft hum of insects, and the low call of owls.

Jaime reached for a leather saddlebag and some smaller packs, arranging them carefully, and pulling a fur over the top.  After the first night, Brienne had nearly begged him to make it appear as though he still slept outside.  He’d scoffed at the idea, saying that no silent brother would wander off so far in the dead of night, either to piss or check on them like some doting parent.  But each night he’d done it anyway, wasting his warm furs on a lifeless set of bags.

The door howled as he snuck into the cabin.  Cautiously, he stepped toward the pallet, tiptoeing as though the ground were made of fragile ice.  A leather bag sat at the foot of the bed, and his ankle caught on it as he moved through the dark.  Swift as he could, he reached for the wall, but his stump slid across the smooth stones.  With a loud thud, his shoulder crashed against the wall before he fell to a knee beside the pallet.  His bones howled with pain at once, but Brienne never stirred.

_She sleeps like a damn ox_ , he thought looking over her, wondering exactly how oxen slept.  Only when he lowered himself onto the dingy straw pallet and settled beside her did she shift at all.  Even then, it was not enough to wake her.  Her lips mumbled indiscernibly before she rolled back to her side, and her breaths returned to a steady rhythm once again.

_No fever dreams tonight_ , he thought, thankfully, ignoring the throb in his shoulder.  With each day past, she began to look more vibrant, as though the life had returned to her face.  But in the night she’d scream and thrash as she slept.  Sometimes she’d cry out for him, her voice hoarse and chilling, as though she’d seen his head removed from his shoulders.  Another time he may have japed about it, relishing in her deep blush, hearing her quick excuses and poor explanations, but instead, he’d stayed quiet.

She never stirred when he joined her, and never awoke from her dreams.  She never knew he pulled the furs up to her cheek when she cried out, smoothed her hair with his only hand, and waited for her to fall into happier thoughts of simpler times.  Part of him wondered if she knew he came to her at all.  Night after night, long after the sun had fallen deep below the water, when only moonlight reflected off the gentle waves, when the island no longer stirred.  Or that he left well before the sun rose, and the brothers followed.  Part of him wondered why he cared.

_It’s dreadfully cold out, and the wench is big enough to heat us both_ , he reasoned, pulling at the furs and shuffling closer.  But he knew that wasn’t all.  He’d never had the chance to sleep with a woman before.  Each time he’d taken Cersei, she’d not wasted a precious moment getting rid of him, saying if he stayed too long, they’d be caught.  The feel of a woman beside him as he laid to sleep was near intoxicating.  Her scent, her warmth, the smoothness of her skin.  Despite the chilling fever dreams, Jaime never felt so rested.

His days were full, too.  He’d found a silent brother surprisingly accomplished with the sword for a peaceful man of the faith.  Certainly for a man who stumbled around in dingy robes and chose to never speak.  If someone had said Ser Ilyn Payne could be so easily replaced, Jaime would have certainly scoffed.  _No man would speak less than Payne,_ he might have said.  _No man could._ Though, the brother certainly came close.

The man happened upon him as he hacked away on an old tree.  From the looks of him, he’d come prepared, with his robes comically hiked up to his knees, an old, dusty sword held tightly in his hand.  He hadn’t said a word, but Jaime knew what the man came for.  Their fight had been exhausting and exhilarating.  His blood raced at the thought of it.

Each morning, with the first hint of sunlight, they’d hike far enough away to hush the clash of steel, the quickened steps thudding carelessly in the unmelted snow.  But only after Jaime surrendered a bottle of wine.  _A man of the faith, practiced with the sword and want for a good drink_ , he grinned at the absurdity of it all.  But the Elder Brother had been more than hospitable with the wine, and the wench only needed a small amount for her wounds, and even less each day.  Wine was a small price for the chance at a good spar.

The wind roared outside the small cabin, whipping through the air and scorching his skin left exposed.  Hurriedly, he shuffled closer under the furs, pushing his hips into her backside in such a way that he unwittingly groaned with want.  Brienne shifted at the sound, rolling over to face him, and whispering in her sleep.  The neck of her tunic was wide and laid askew, revealing a modest crease where one meager breast pressed firmly against the other.  Unbidden, Jaime’s eyes followed the line and traced the hint of a small, pink bud made taut by the cold air.  He bit his lip and furrowed his brow, trying to recall Cersei’s generous breasts, always on display.  _For everyone_ , he thought bitterly _.  But if the wench knew she laid so exposed, she’d likely die from embarrassment._ And somehow that made the sight much sweeter.  Finally, he tore his eyes away, grinning at how humiliated she’d surely be if she caught him.

_It’s been far too long_ , he thought again, hoping the dark night was enough to shield the strain he felt in his breeches, a strain he grew increasingly tired of fighting.  Still, some small voice whispered, _Take her and be done with it_ , from deep in the back of his mind _.  Put all these ridiculous curiosities to rest once and for all._ And with a low grunt, he rolled on his back, away from Brienne, facing the dusty stone wall instead.  His hand reached for the edge of the furs and wrapped them around his shoulders tightly, and high enough to cover his chin.

_She’s just a girl.  A maid_ , he thought.  _And I’ve tarnished her enough._

 

_——_

Well before the first rays of sunlight peeked over the hills, Jaime arose again, slowly pushing himself from the straw pallet.  His bones were stiff, and they popped and cracked as he stretched.  And his back ached from the worn mattress.  Somehow the thing was even worse than the simple cots back at the Lannister camp.

“Jaime?” Brienne whispered.  Her voice was meek and hoarse, as though they’d spent the night fucking and screaming aloud.  Promptly, he pushed the thought away, turning back to her.

She had a sleepiness about her, but she looked alive, healthy. Her cheeks were rosy pink, her straw blonde hair mussed almost artfully, her lips a pouty, swollen red, and her eyes half-lidded allowing the tiniest bit of brilliant blue to escape.  He had half a mind to return to her bed, to give her good reason to have such a throaty voice, and to look as she did.  _What would the pious Elder Brother think of that?_ His gaze turned to the dirt seeping between his toes before his eyes were lost on other parts of her as well.

“Out with it, Brienne.  What do you need from me?,” his tone far more bothered than he felt.

“Nothing—“ she spoke hurriedly.  “I just.. you’re very warm,” her cheeks were fiery red, “..thank you.”  She looked as though she wished to disappear, and Jaime almost laughed, watching her act like some bashful, sheepish maid.  Instead he nodded, reaching for the empty supply basket before stepping out into the frigid morning.

On a different day, he may have slept for another hour outside in the cold, cursing the wind that snuck under his furs and stung his toes.  But this morning, he stirred, far too consumed with thoughts better suited for a seasoned whore.  He hoped wandering lost on the isle with an empty basket would be enough of a distraction.

The cloister was dark when he arrived, with the brothers still quiet in their cabins.  It was almost beautiful, with the freshly fallen bits of snow glistening on the rooftops, the moonlight still glowing against leaves, and the gentle wash of waves crashing against the shore in the distance.  If Jaime was a patient man, he would have sat against an old oak and enjoyed the sunrise, waiting as the men of the island arose.  But he headed to the Hermit’s Hole instead.

The place was little more than a door carved into the side of a hill, and looked a bit like something he may have seen in a book as a child.  The frame of the door was far too small for a man of large stature.  Though the thought of the Elder Brother stooping his broad shoulders to fit inside was a humorous one.  _And how many times has the man not stooped far enough and bumped his blessed head?_ Fighting off the smile threatening his lips, he raised his golden hand to rap on the door. 

“Lannister,”  The Elder brother stood hunched in the entrance.  “It is said you can trust a man who rises early.”

“Is it?” Jaime asked.  “Then I suppose it’s a shame I usually sleep in.”  The man smiled reluctantly as he waved him inside.

“How’s Lady Brienne?  I don’t believe I’ve seen her about for days.”

“Better,” Jaime sighed.  “Much better.  I’ve tended her wounds each evening.  That one on her cheek has calmed, but will leave quite a scar.  And her fever has broken.”  The brother nodded, as his eyes followed Jaime across the room.  “That’s why I’m here, actually.  We’ve used nearly all the bandages.”

“Of course,” the Brother nodded, and quickly began rifling through his wares.

“And we’ll be leaving soon, most like.”

“Already?” He asked, a bit skeptical, and Jaime nodded.  The wench hadn’t said it yet, but he felt it coming as each day passed, as she slept less and smiled more.  But even as her health flourished, she had a sadness about her that grew with her strength.  Her smiles were forced, and never lasted long.

“ _Lady_ Brienne nearly refused to stop at all, the stubborn woman.  But I wouldn't go on with her in such a condition,” Jaime huffed.

“She’s a strong one,” the man nodded, passing off the basket to Jaime’s good hand.  “But that poor child’s seen far too much.”

Instinctively, Jaime stiffened.  _Brienne may be young and scarred, but she’s a warrior,_ he almost said. _She’s only seen what we all must._ “For a woman, you mean?”

“For a woman, yes.”  Jaime scoffed at that.  _Even the daintiest of women can be twice as ruthless as the most terrifying of men._ “For anyone, truly.  She may not look it, but she’s a delicate one,” the Brother took a deep breath.  “And seeing her with you, with that burn of rope around her neck.. I feared for you both.”

_Rope?_ Had he been too bloody stupid to see it for what it was? Or was he blinded by her honor and shameless virtue?

“What are you saying?”  Jaime’s brow furrowed, as he watched the Brother’s hands frozen in their place.

“Are you not on the run?  From the Hangwoman and her band of aimless followers?  I had thought you came here to hide.”

_Hangwoman.._ Briefly, he recalled an angry Walder Rivers and his brother Edwyn storming into his tent dry-eyed, but accusatory, claiming some outlaws had hanged their father.  Somehow they’d found Jaime Lannister guilty.

_She’s been hanged._   Or at least someone tried.  _Beaten and bitten, too._

_I needed your help.._ again, her confession rang in his ears.  _But not against the Hound._

The Elder Brother still sat, quietly surveying the flames dancing in his fireplace.  “I could only pray to the Seven you’d bring no trouble,” his voice was soft over the sound of burning wood.

 

_——_

 

Jaime’s feet sped underneath him, carrying him further from the Hermit’s Hole.  _I trusted her without thinking twice_..But what reason had she ever given him to doubt her?

She’d accepted his sword only to throw him to the wolves and watch him swing lifelessly from a tree, strung up like prized livestock with the life wrenched clear from his neck.  And he’d followed her from Pennytree just like a lamb.

It was far too much to think on, with each word she’d said combining in some confusing mess.  So he ran, instead.  He ran past a creek and through countless towering trees.  Running as the sun continued to rise, in a bloody orange blur.  He ran without purpose, and without care.  Only, he ran without knowing where to go.  The Isle was nothing but silent brothers, ghastly grave diggers, the Elder Brother, and the wench surrounded by treacherous waters and sands ready to swallow him whole.

So he ran to the one place he knew, far enough away from everyone and everything, to drown his fears in a dusty bottle of ale from the supply basket.  It wasn’t long before the silent brother arrived, sword in hand and ready for the day’s duel.

“Sorry, ser.  Afraid I’m in no shape for that today,” Jaime confessed, motioning to the sword with his golden hand.  “But do join me.”  Lazily, he patted the ground beside him.

“Drinking in the morning,” Jaime nearly slurred, licking his lips and holding up the bottle.  “Drinking for good news, bad news, any news, no news.  My dead father can shun me all he likes, I was born a Lannister, and I’ll die one.”  A sudden belch caught him by surprise.  “And drinking this hot shit here,” he swirled the bottle in his good hand, “only proves it.”

The brother looked about the clearing, confused, as though ready to flee.  When the man finally sat, Jaime shoved the bottle into his timid hands with a bit too much force.  The ale sloshed inside the glass, and to his surprise, the bottle was nearly empty. 

“That girl I came here with.. Brienne..” Jaime  uttered , watching the man take a modest sip from the bottle.  “She lied to me.”  The words were a clumsy dagger to his chest.

The brother looked at him, plainly.  His mouth in some unreadable, thin line.  Jaime found himself suddenly longing for the harsh cackle of Ilyn Payne.

“I followed her because I thought her good, and honorable.  And now I’ll die for it.”  Greedily, he snatched the bottle of ale from the brother’s hands, and raised it to the air.  “A toast to my life,” he said, grimly.  _A toast to my death._   The ale was hot and bitter as it burned down his throat and stung his eyes.

“But perhaps it’s my time,” he reasoned, shakily watching the ground.  “Perhaps killing a king, fucking my sister, parading my bastards as heirs to the throne, and crippling a curious child is quite enough.”  When he listed his crimes in sequence, it was a wonder he still took a breath, that the gods hadn’t seen it just to strike him where he stood long ago.

“I’ve been sleeping with her at night, too.  In her sacred, maidens-only cabin,” he wasn’t quite sure why he’d said that, but ale had always made him say too much.  The brother turned to him with a raised eyebrow.  “Not like that,” Jaime spat.  “And I thought you a simple man of the Seven, flogging yourself for thinking of a woman’s bare toes.”

Slowly, Jaime looked at the man, knowingly, and with a smug grin.  “But I bet you think of fucking them, too.  You silent brothers are a celibate bunch, are you not?”   Reluctantly, the brother nodded, taking a healthy swig of ale, then nervously clearing his throat.

“Gods, I’d wager you’ve dreamt of fucking Brienne.  She’s likely the only woman you’ve seen in ages.”  With a roaring laugh, Jaime snatched the bottle from the man’s hand and finished it off with loud gulps.  Clumsily, the glass slipped from his hand and bounced off the dirt below.  When he turned again to look upon the brother, the man’s eyes were large, and his brow furrowed.

“No?” Jaime laughed, kicking the bottle, his head swimming with the smallest movements.  “I suppose celibacy never did quite suit me.”  Leaning back against a tree stump, he crossed his legs and stretched.

“You’re an awful drinking partner, you know.  To pious and quiet to commiserate with even a dead man.”  Stumblingly, Jaime went to kick the glass bottle again, like some rebellious child, but the brother snatched it away before he could.

“If the time has come to pay your debts, then you shall.”  Finally hearing the man’s voice was a welcomed surprise.  “No man, or maid, as it is, has a say in the actions of the Seven.”

“Is it your day to speak already, then?” Jaime smirked.  “Or do you only open your mouth when some vague religious lesson seems warranted?”  The man ignored his jest as he stood, his tattered robe dragging in the grass.

“May the gods be just,” he said solemnly, then took toward the trees, surely back to his pitifully silent holy cloister.  Loathsome as Jaime was, he made no move to stop the man, and only watched his broad shoulders disappear within midday shadows.

_May the gods be just_ , he scoffed.  _It’s not the gods carrying the ropes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know, I combined some of the shorter chapter to make longer ones, which is why the chapter count is down to 10.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting, everyone! I always appreciate your input!


	6. Brienne IV

_Surely he’s just outside, staying quiet_ , Brienne thought, reaching for the wooden door.

It felt as though days had passed since Jaime left the cottage, with nothing but an empty basket in hand, and the sword on his hip.  Even longer since she’d stammered out some absurd compliment of his warmth in her sleepy haze, her tongue fumbling to find the words.

_Such a stupid girl,_ she had whispered to herself, hidden under the furs.  Though it struck her odd that he didn’t laugh, or make some jape as he stepped out the door.  She almost wished he had.

She found herself restlessly tossing and turning after he left.  It felt almost unnatural laying on the pallet without a handless arm draped over her waist, warm breath upon her neck in the night.

Though she tried to ignore the jittery feeling in her belly, and pretend it was something she knew nothing of.  That time spent as a girl in a soldier’s camp hadn’t taught her near enough.  It was a childish thing anyway, to swoon over each brush of skin, each word he muttered, and forget they could both be dead days from now _._

 

Brienne raised a hand to shield the late morning sun, but found no one sparring the great oak, or wading through the snow melt to greet her and break his fast.   On any other morning he would have had his sword in his left hand, and he would have smiled or made some quip as he walked toward the cottage.  But today the field was empty, and their bits of bread and honey were left untouched.  Not a crumb had been spilled, not a bite taken, and Jaime wasn’t one to pass on a meal.

Unwittingly, her heart began to pound.  _What if he’s left me here?_ The thought was a frightening one, returning to Catelyn without so much as Jaime Lannister by her side.  The dead woman had no patience for broken vows.  _And I promised her the sword.._   She tried to push the troubling thought away, grasping at a piece of bread and drizzling it with honey.  _He’ll return soon_ , she thought, taking a deep breath, refusing to let her nerves get the best of her.

It wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d gone missing.  Some mornings they’d break their fast, and he’d snatch up his sword and take to the trees, only to return hours later with a wide grin on his face.  Brienne never heard the telling clash of steel, but she began to suspect he fought more than a simple oak when bruises had blossomed on his skin.  Not that Brienne was surprised.  The Elder Brother himself had been a knight before vowing silence.

Calmly, she reached for the book laid on the ground next to the straw pallet.  _The Seven Pointed Star._ Her fingers traced the seven points embossed on the cover as she thought of Meribald.  The man couldn’t scribble a letter, but he could recite the text from memory.

_They let him go_ , she remembered.  On her way to Pennytree, she’d sent a prayer to the Seven for his protection.  He was only a simple septon, but he knew of war, and far better than her.  As a girl, she’d read the books of historic battles, the accomplishments of great lords and their noble knights.  Not one had mentioned the smallfolk.

_He was a wise man, and brave_ , she thought.  _Living off the kindness of strangers with only a sermon to offer._ Still, Brienne had half hoped to find him here on the isle with Dog by his side.

The book’s cover was frayed at the edges, and the pages were old and yellowed. Some had slight tears at the corners, just like her favorite ones on Tarth.  So many lessons of her youth had come from the holy script, but the thing usually sat untouched on her shelf.  At least until her septa would force her to put away her books of knighthood and study the devotional verses.

A long, silent hour passed with her fingers skimming through the pages of the Warrior, the Mother, the Father and nearly reaching the Maiden’s Book before her belly began to sink.  _He should be back by now_ , she thought, closing the dusty text and reaching for her boots.

 

——

 

Brienne had seen the cloister before, but today it felt much larger.  About a dozen brothers were about, wandering silently, and nodding to one other before they dipped into small buildings and cabins.

“Have you seen Ser Jaime today,” she asked one carrying firewood.  He was a stout man who had to tilt his head up to meet her gaze.  The brown robe covered all but his eyes, and it swayed softly when he shook his head.  Just as so many others had.

When another stepped near her, she opened her mouth to ask again, but the man shook his head before she could utter a word.  _He couldn’t have swam away_ , she reasoned.  A storm was blowing in, and the winds whipped harsh against the water.  _If he’s left the isle, it would have been by ferry.  Someone would know._   But who was left to ask?

A particularly large brother in tattered robes stepped past in long strides.  This one had a soldier’s build, nearly as tall as the Elder Brother, and his movements seemed practiced and sharp when he turned to face her.  _I’ve never seen him before._ She would have remembered if she had.

“Excuse me.  I don’t mean to startle you,” the words jumbled and hitched as they left her throat.  “I’m looking for someone, Ser Jaime Lannister.  It seems no one else has seen him today.”  The man stiffened and met her eyes.  His gaze was sharp, and there was a bruise on his brow, nearly hidden by shadows.

“Have you seen Ser Jaime Lannister?” she asked, wondering if his hearing was dull.  But the man slowly turned his gaze to the ground as he shook his head.  Brienne watched him as he turned, his threadbare robe dragging behind his large feet.  He walked to the cloister and past three brothers she’d already asked before disappearing into a cabin.

_There’s no one left._ For a moment she thought of heading to the Hermit’s Hole.  The Elder Brother always been kind to her, never jerking his gaze across her ugly face, then twisting his mouth to consider his words.  But he was a holy man of the Seven, and gracious enough to offer them shelter.  It felt wrong to drag him into some pathetic plea for life.  _Or a march to the death.._

Instead, she let her feet take her to the sound of rushing water.  The crash of waves upon the shore was soothing, and reminded her of Tarth.  Swimming in the ocean, running in the sand, naked as her nameday.

_My father waits for me there._   Selwyn Tarth was growing old long before she joined Renly’s cause, and though he’d replaced her mother many times, the gods had never been kind enough to grant him a son.  _Not one who lived_ , she thought, sitting on the shore, watching the glistening waves.

The sun grew dangerously close to the horizon, turning the water a soft shade of orange, mixed with deeper blue.  It was a more beautiful sight than she’d seen since leaving home.  Slowly, she laid her back upon the cool sand.

_How many times must I fail before the Stranger claims me?_   She’d always been more fascinated with swords than needlework.  Never enough of a lady to marry and bear heirs.  She’d stood by as her King had fallen, holding him as he took his final breath.  Later, Brienne was leagues away when Catelyn had fallen, too.

_And no Oathkeeper at all.._   Her lady had wanted nothing more than to see her daughters again, to hold them near, and tell them how she loved them.  But Brienne was no closer to finding them now than she was in Riverrun, when she handed Catelyn her sword and she held it to Jaime’s chest.

Calm as she could, she trailed a single finger through the sand, reveling at its coarse coolness.  Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy, and images of her childhood, playing with Galladon on the beach, of her Septa chastising her for being _too much a boy_ brought a sweet smile to her face.

 

Brienne arose to the sound of shuffling behind her.  Turning suddenly, her fingers itched for her sword, brushing its hilt.

_Jaime?_ She wondered if she dreamt.  How else would he find her dozing midday on the shore?  But there he sat, his arms wrapped loosely around his knees.

“Good morning,” he japed, with an easy, tired smirk.

“Where have you—“ the words quickly stumbled from her tired mouth.  “I.. I’ve been searching for you.”

“It must have been exhausting.”  His eyes gazed past her, out over the water at the thick storm clouds approaching in the distance.

“I was worried you’d left.”

“This lovely place?”  There was a certain gentleness in how he spoke, a knowing calmness in the way he looked upon her.  It would’ve been easy to stay on the isle for another day, sitting in the sand beside Ser Jaime, watching the water.  _But poor Podrick.  I’ve left him.._   Her stomach sank at the thought, how he’d choked when the rope tightened around his neck.

“We should go,” she said, as stern as she could.

“Should we?”

“We’ve waited long enough,” she wouldn’t raise her eyes from the sand.  “If we are to have any chance at this, we must leave,” her mouth moved to say the words she’d rather not think on.

“And you think the Hound hasn’t moved far?”  Her lips twitched at the question.  She chanced a quick glance at him and found his eyes staring, boring into her, as though he could read her thoughts, and hear her lies.

“Let’s hope not,” she said finally.

 

——

 

The night found them atop their horses, following the darkened path lined by hanged men.  The bodies swayed slowly in the wind, rain pouring off their arms and legs in tiny rivers, dripping to the ground.  The smell of soggy, rotten skin was near unbearable, and Brienne forced herself to look upon each bloated face, past the scratches and tears from ravaging crows.

One swung only inches from the path, nearly brushing her shoulder with a foot as she passed.  He was pale, but had yet to decay, as if he’d lived only hours before.  His neck was snapped at the rope, and his eyes were opened wide, staring upon her, following her as she rode by.  Drops of rain fell from his head and down his cheek, as though he wept.

_It rained at the inn that night, too,_ she remembered, feeling her heart rise to her throat.  And as they rode farther, the rain poured faster, dripping heavy through her hair, seeping under her armor, making her movements stiff and her cloak heavy.

Jaime hadn’t uttered a word since they’d left the isle.

_It’s not too late_ , she thought, desperately, eyeing the hanged men.  _I could turn my horse around, confess my betrayal to Ser Jaime, and save him.  And though he’d never look upon me again, at least he would live._   For a moment, she almost considered it.  _But Podrick, he’s just a boy.._

More men swayed in trees the closer they got to the camp.  Brienne could hear flies swarming the dead, hear bodies bumping against one another with a sickly smack, and taste the bitterness of decay and betrayal.

_I must continue_ , Brienne decided, staring down the darkened path.  _I must do what I can to save Podrick, to convince Catelyn to let the four of us live.  I refuse to be the lone survivor.  And I refuse to be the last to die._ She sent a quick prayer to the Warrior for strength, the Mother for guidance, forgiveness, and the Maiden for her innocence, lost as it was.

A loud rustle echoed through the night, hidden somewhere in the darkness, behind the trees and swinging men.  Jaime heard it too, bringing his horse to a halt, and reaching his left hand for his hilt.

“If it isn’t the Kingslayer and his bloody, giant whore,” a voice sneered from the shadows.  Brienne hung her head and released the reigns.  _This is it_ , she thought.  _I was a fool to think it would go any differently._ Almost lifelessly, she climbed off her horse, refusing to look upon Jaime still mounted behind her.  The look on his face would surely crush her, that look of realization, of betrayal.  But what choice did she have?  Pleading for life was her only hope.  _Pleading for life with a woman long dead.._

She’d pled for Jaime before and nearly died for it.  This time she would beg the woman if she must, make promises, swear oaths.  And she’d die before she saw them broken.

Catelyn couldn’t see it before, but he was much more than a wanted man, a Lannister, a Kingslayer.  He was Ser Jaime who had protected her honor against the Bloody Mummers, jumped into the bear pit one-handed, given her his own sword and named it Oathkeeper.  Thoughtlessly, she thumbed its golden hilt, slightly worn from her travels.

_No matter what you do, you’re forsaking one vow or the other,_ his own words spoken nearly a lifetime ago hummed in her ear.  She’d never detested a man more than him that night, in his drunken, lewd goadings of Lady Catelyn.  But she was little more than a child then.  _Before Hoat cut his paw.  Before Catelyn called for his head._

Soon, more than ten men emerged from the shadows, large and fierce, nearly rubbing their hands together with anticipation.  _They want this_ , Brienne thought bitterly.  _They’ll enjoy watching us hang._

It was as if she watched her body from above, not feeling the men reach for her arms and wrap them tightly around her back, not hearing the curses and insults they spat in her ear, or smelling the sour wine on their breath.  It seemed Jaime did nothing to resist.  _If he gave them a fight, they may not need to waste another rope._

She turned to face him, through the jerks and pulls pushing her along.  There was something unreadable writ upon his face.  Anger?  Anger is what it should have been, or perhaps pity for a young girl acting stupidly like some knight from a song.  _Where there is a line drawn between good and evil, and no one breaks a vow._ But his face was soft, and not with shame.

A single tear fell, tangled in the maze of her ruined cheek.  Brienne could taste its bitter salt in her mouth.  _She promised to never bring me into dishonor,_ the distant memory was all she held onto.  _She swore it before the gods._

Jaime stumbled beside her, held by three men.  His golden hair was soaked with rain, and hid his eyes away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him, so soft the words were nearly lost in the rain and whipping wind.


	7. Jaime III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter will contain violence and threats of a sexual nature (which do remain only threats).
> 
> I feel these threats are relatively mild (and certainly not worse than Brienne’s encounter with the Bloody Mummers in ASOS), but I realize everyone’s tolerance for these sorts of things varies. If you are enjoying this story, but would rather sit this one out, please don’t hesitate to leave a comment or [send me a message on tumblr](http://gnosiophobic.tumblr.com/) about it. I would be happy to add a synopsis of the chapter at the bottom.

“Remove their armor,” a large, bearded man ordered from behind.  “They won’t be needin’ it.”  Jaime’s was made of fine steel, with a lion engraved on the chest and a crimson cloak tacked at his shoulders, but it certainly wasn’t his most valued set.  Brienne’s had seen better days, with chinks, gashes and scratches sprinkled over the breastplate.

“Where is she?” Brienne was yelling.  “And where is Podrick and Ser Hyle?”  A man struck her across her face so hard she stumbled and nearly fell.

“That boy and loud-mouthed jackass?” the man snorted, without looking her in the eye.  “Did you miss them swinging on your way here?”

“No,” Brienne choked, shaking her head.  “She wouldn’t..”  Jaime pushed and pulled, inching closer to her, but his arms were held too tightly behind his back.

A few men gathered, holding them at sword point while others stripped them down to their flimsy tunic and wool breeches.  Brienne hid her face, refusing to look upon anyone, still shaking her head in disbelief.

_I should be furious.  I should never want to look upon her face again._ But he refused to face such a death with anything but quiet acceptance.

He’d sat alone that morning, long after the brother had left him, until the haze from the ale had faded and the sun nearly fell.  He’d hid and gotten nearly as drunk as the time Catelyn came to him in chains so long ago, but he couldn’t run.  If he left her there on the isle, broken and bewildered, she’d be dead in a fortnight.  All for a man who wouldn’t face his past.  _And the stubborn wench would take it, too.  She’d gladly act the martyr._   Some deep part of him knew she already had.  _Because that’s what true knights are sworn to do._

When the sun finally fell over the water, he’d walked along the shore, and sat by her as she slept.  It wasn’t forgiveness.  The wench wasn’t the one who needed to be forgiven anyway.

_If the Seven are just, my death will be slow and painful_ , he remembered the silent brother’s words. _If they are merciful, it will be quick.  And if I am truly struck down at the same moment as my twin, may they laugh at us both, golden fools that we are._ It was the closest to a final prayer he could muster.

Dirty hands grasped at his arms, yanking them behind his back, and Jaime complied.  His limbs grew slack, not willing to fight, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the coarse rope to find his neck.

But the rope never came.  Instead, he heard Brienne cry out from behind, followed by a sickening splatter and crack.  He turned to find her rolling on the ground, holding her side, groaning in pain.  Mud caked her tunic, exposing the outline of her breasts, and seeped into her hair.  _Surely this isn’t what she expected._

“Big bloody bitch, this one,” a tall, but portly man huffed.  “Strong, too.  Gron, get the ropes.  We’ll need to tie ‘er up.”

“Maybe that’s how she likes it,” another man poked at her side with his shoddy blade.  “Just like an animal.  Maybe that gets ‘er good and wet.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you how to treat a lady?” Jaime spat.  “What crime has she committed?”  He was met with a quick slap across the mouth.

“Other than being an enormous fucking cow?” the portly man reached for the ropes as they were handed off.  “Same as you, I’d wager,” he shrugged.  “But we want a bit of fun before she’s dangling next to you from some old oak.”  The men enthusiastically roared, and some began to chant, _Kingslayer’s whore!  Kingslayer’s whore!_   Brienne rolled away from her side, and weakly tried to stand before a burly man with a soiled boot kicked her arm out from under her.  With a loud groan, she fell into the mud once again.

“I thought the Kingslayer only fucked his own sister,” Jaime heard one man say from the back.  “Maybe we should have him prove us wrong.”

“And when he’s finished with her, getting her all good and wet with his pretty face, we can have our turn,” another shouted, and the men roared with approval.

“If you think I’m the pretty one, let go of my arms and take your chance,” Jaime goaded through wet hair matted to his face.  There were far too many of them, but he refused to go down without a fight.  “Isn’t it me you sent for?”

A large man with an unruly red beard approached him with a dagger in hand.  He stood only inches from Jaime’s face, bathing him in rank, ale-ridden breath.

“Bugger that!” he bellowed and licked his cracked lips.  “Perhaps you’re the one the Hangwoman wants, but we aren’t the Hangwoman.”

“Go on, then.  Fuck your whore!,” another man yelled, his flagon of wine sloshing as he kicked the back of Jaime’s knee.  Clumsily, Jaime stumbled and fell into the mud next to Brienne, his cheek hitting the ground with a disgusting slosh.

“Shall I play the Rains of Castamere again, m’lord?  Would that help set the mood?”  The voice was as vaguely familiar as the man who spoke.   Small-framed with a sharp nose.  His brown hair laid limp on his forehead, his eyes smiled with a sinister pleasure, and this time he carried a dagger, not a harp.  _Tom o’ Sevens_ , Jaime finally remembered.  _I had him sing for Edmure Tully._ The thought struck him like a heavy boot to the chest.  _How long have these men followed me?_ They’d nearly killed Brienne just to get closer.  She laid next to him, writhing in the mud and holding her side, her eyes clenched shut.

“What are you waiting for, Kingslayer?” a red-bearded man shouted only steps away.

“I will not,” Jaime said, raising himself with his good hand from the mud.

“What’s that?  I must be going deaf, because I thought I heard you refuse us our entertainment.”

“I said,” Jaime began, lifting himself from the ground slowly, “I will not.”  And he swung his golden hand, hard as he could.  With a loud crack, the the bearded man fell back into the mud, and reached up to hold in the blood seeping from his mouth into his red whiskers.

Jaime felt a surge of pride at the sight, until he turned to see at least ten other men surrounding him with shoddy swords drawn, and the singer holding a dagger to Brienne’s throat so tight that a small drop of crimson trailed down her neck.

_Would that she and I were still young and strong, we could have taken them all._   But Jaime knew better.  More than careless youth and unrivaled strength had gone missing since then.

“You _will_ fuck her here in the mud, or else I will kill her,” Tom o’ Sevens seethed, his gaze unwavering.  Brienne’s eyes were closed, and her hand still held her side.

_She’s given up_ , he thought, painfully.

“Very well,” he said only to drive the dagger away from Brienne’s neck.  “You must forgive the Lady.  It seems no matter how many times I’ve taken her, she still remains a bit shy.”  Slowly, reluctantly, the men began to laugh.  “But it’s no wonder.  Poor thing, having to go through life with that face.”  Then the men roared, and Jaime smiled with a bit of relief, but felt the bile rise in the back of his throat at his words.

_Let them laugh_ , he thought.  _Let them grow drunk and careless._ It was a dubious plan, but the best he had.

“But I must ask,” Jaime nodded at the singer and his worn dagger.  “For just a bit of space.  She prefers a gentler touch, much like a frightened sow.”  Warily, Tom o’ Sevens backed away as the men chuckled and howled, seemingly quite pleased with themselves.

Jaime knelt beside Brienne laying in the mud, clutching at her ribs, and covered in filth.  Mud had seeped under the bandage on her cheek, and began to dry on the wound underneath.  With his good hand, he wiped at it with his thumb, slowly sweeping across her skin until she began to wince.

“Brienne,” he whispered, still stroking her cheek, as the men chatted amongst themselves.  _This is my fault_ , he thought.  _I never should have sent her alone._

He reached for his cloak, thrown carelessly beside him, strewn amongst their discarded armor.  Gently, he wiped the drying blood from her neck, and for a moment, he felt tears well in his eyes.  _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat.

“I never once dreamt I’d see the great Jaime Lannister, handless and fucking a cow!” Jaime heard a man chortle from the back.  

“All the gold of Casterly Rock won’t save him from the noose!” someone shouted.  “The Kingslayer can’t hide behind his father’s skirts any longer!” he heard a deep voice bellow.  But he never took his eyes off her.

“Brienne,” he whispered more forcefully.  His cloak had fallen to cover them, and the men began to shout in anger.  “Brienne!  Look at me!”  And she did, her eyes brilliant blue, but scared, shining amidst the dirt and wetting her face with tears.  “Are you so craven?” he nearly choked on the words.

“Craven?” she whispered, hoarsely.  “I’ve betrayed you.”

“If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else,” his eyes darted to the singer only steps away.  

“Take what you need from me.  I don’t deserve your pity,” her voice was small, weak, and he hated the sound of it.

“Stop acting so pathetic, wench.  It doesn’t suit you.  I will be taking nothing from you.  And neither will they.”  Her eyes searched him.  “You must live, Brienne,” he rasped.  “Live, fight, and take revenge.”  They were the same words she’d spoken ages ago, when life was nothing without his sword hand.

Oathkeeper laid next to Jaime’s blade only a reach away.  The men had either been too drunk or stupid to move it further.  More likely, they underestimated a woman with a sword, even one of fine Valyrian steel.  _And they’ve underestimated the cripple as well._

“You and I,” he whispered.  “We can take them if we try,” Jaime lied.  “They’re drunk, stupid, and unpracticed, and while we may be weak, we are one-thousand times the swordsmen they are.”

She looked at him then, with that determined gleam in her eye, and nodded.  _We won’t die without a sword in our hands_ , he almost smiled just to push back the threatening tears.

All around him, Jaime could hear the crowd of men growing closer, angrier, threatening to rip off their breeches for them if they didn’t start soon.

“Play along,” he murmured.  “Give them what they want for a bit, let them relax, then we’ll strike.”  With that, Jaime rolled up his cloak with his good hand and let it slump to the side.

“Sorry, men,” his voice was light.  “The lady needs a little coaxing sometimes.  Just some sweet nothings to get her wet and ready.”

Once again, the men whooped, whistled.  A few began to encourage them with lewd suggestions, while others simply shouted _Get on with it!_

Then his lips found her neck, gently as he could, pushing short kisses along the side, below her muddied ear.  His mouth steered away from all the cuts and bruises spattered along her skin.  His good hand cradled her cheek, and pulled her further from the mud, while his golden hand grazed across her waist, far from the ribs she favored.  And painfully, his belly churned, realizing this was likely the first time a man’s lips had brushed her skin.

Hearing an impatient rustle from behind, he pushed his mouth to hers, soft and timid, and heard the men cheer obscenely.  Her lips were large and full, much softer than he’d expected.  Perhaps if their skin was clean of mud, if only the stars were there to watch, it could have been lovely.  But the men stood all around, hollering loud.

For all the times Jaime had kissed, not once had another been present.  Kissing Cersei was a private thing kept locked away in far off towers and inconspicuous inns.  _But this is no more a kiss than a beheading is a mercy._

He broke away from her lips to find her blue eyes wide and dazed, then returned to her neck, whispering to her ear between short kisses.

“I will count back from three.  On my signal, we will reach for our swords and attack.”

“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly against his ear, sending a bit of gooseflesh down his back.

“Three,” he breathed into her neck.

“Two,” his eyes opened and his hand readied at his side.

“One,” he shouted, pushing off the ground and lunging for his sword.

Jaime stood ready, extending his blade, but the men had grown silent, their backs turned from the two of them.  Just beyond the crowd, he could see a gaunt, grey-haired man holding a large sword heavy with flames.  _Thoros of Myr_ , he recognized, lowering his blade.  _How long has he been here?_ Another man draped in a cloak the color of rotten corn, and some mysterious hooded figure stood beside him.

“Gron,” Thoros shouted as though he might to a naughty child.  “What’s going on here?”  The flaming sword singed furiously with each drop of rain.  “I sent you to bring them for trial.  Is this justice to you?”

The hefty, dirtied man, _Gron_ , stepped forward, stammering some unheard response, and a few others fell in behind him.

“We haven’t seen a woman in ages!” a man bellowed from the back.

“You’re going to hang ‘em both anyway, let us have a bit of fun with ‘em first!,” another yelled, brusquely.  The cloaked figure raised a bony hand to her throat, and made a series of hisses and gags that made Jaime’s skin turn to ice.

“Is this what we’ve become?”  There was an edge of a sneer in Thoros’ voice, sharp as a knife. A large man stepped up, towering over the red priest, his face only inches away.

“And why should we bother to listening to you?” his voice was low and threatening.  “Some old hack of a priest answering to a damned corpse?”

For a moment, Thoros stood silently, eyeing the man though heavy drops of rain.  Then with a quick flash, the flaming sword cut through his belly, sending thick rivers of crimson to the ground, mixing with the mud.

“I suppose that’s reason enough,” he heard Thoros say, more light than expected.  _I’d say so_ , Jaime agreed.  And that was all it took for the other men to charge with swords in hand.  Jaime moved to grab Brienne by the arm and flee in the excitement, until he saw her pinned to the ground, driving Oathkeeper through a man’s neck.  He twitched beneath her blade, but his hands still gripped on her tunic, looking like he meant to rip it off her.

As if fueled by the sight, Jaime swung at a man who's back was turned, waiting for his chance at Thoros.  His blade wedged into his side and slid out with a hiss and a drip.  As the man sunk to the ground, Jaime took on the next, and the next, his blood singing as men fell to his feet, unaware.

He moved through them effortlessly, swinging his blade as though he still had his right hand, as though he fought in some battle from his youth.  And when he came upon Tom o’ Sevens looking over him wide eyed with his dagger raised, Jaime didn’t hesitate to push his sword through the man’s belly, grinning at the way the singer's bones slid against the blade.

“Perhaps a verse from The Rains of Castamere would have set the mood quite well,” Jaime said, twisting the hilt.  “Pity you brought that dagger instead of a harp.”  Swiftly, he pushed the man off the sword and sliced the blade cooly across his neck.  Once fallen, he kicked the singer in the ribs for good measure.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Thoros’ flaming sword still dancing, but Brienne stood in the back, uncertain.  _You may not know where your allegiance should lie_ , he thought, clashing swords with a clumsy drunk, _but I certainly do._ With another thrust, the sword pierced the man’s chest, spilling red puddles at Jaime’s feet.

Blood was splattered across his soggy tunic like a badge, and dimmed to a softer shade as the rain continued to pour.  His breeches were soaked through and his boots were caked in mud, but he hadn’t felt so alive in years.  His pulse thrummed as he surveyed the fallen men, and he could almost feel the fingers of his lost hand twitch.

Steps away, Brienne stood with Oathkeeper drawn, her knuckles tight on the hilt.  She was bent at the waist, clutching her side, with her head low.  Her wet hair stuck to her face and the rain washed away the dirt and blood staining her skin.  Slowly, she trekked through the mud to Thoros and the two others who still stood, one heavy step at a time.

_Enjoy this victory while you can_ , Jaime told himself.  _It may be your last._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outlaws within the BwB: heartless killers, secret shippers, or inventors of Westerosi porn? The world will never know.


	8. Brienne V

Brienne could feel all the eyes upon her.  Eyes of the living, and the eyes of the dead.  They watched, waited as she stumbled through the mud, sloshing thick muck upon her breeches.  The wind hissed in her ear, and the fallen men seemed to laugh as she moved by, with each mouth twisting to say _freak freak freak.._

Steps away, Jaime still stood, his tunic askew and splattered with dirt and blood.  _He could have run.  He should have._ His hand raised to move the wet hair from his face, but Brienne looked away.

_False friend.._ the drops of rain sighed as they tangled in her hair and fell from her nose.

“Thoros of Myr,” Jaime shouted, sounding almost amused as he stepped forward.  Thoros wore the same shoddy pink robe she remembered, when he sat beside her in the cave tended to her fever, and gave her cold stew and hard bread.  Now the rags clung to his meager frame, dripping wet.

“I thought I remembered you being quite a bit fatter,” Jaime observed.  _How can I hope to plead for him if he won’t keep his mouth shut?_ “But still using that damned flaming sword, I see.”

“A tribute of sorts, to Lord Beric, and to the past,” Thoros inched closer to him, eyeing the flames from his blade crackling and licking at the sky.  “You look about the same, Kingslayer.  Maybe just a bit grayer than the day Robert took the throne.  The day you stood by as your father presented him with the bodies of babes you swore to protect.  Though I suppose you were too busy cleaning Aerys' blood off your sword to protect helpless children.”

The two men stood just a reach away with nothing between them but the heavy rain.

“And just how many bottles of wine had you downed with our new king that day?”  Jaime’s voice had a venomous bite, something she hadn’t heard in ages.  “How many whores had you shared?”  Then he paused, eyeing Lem Lemoncloak.  “And who the fuck are you?”

Through eyes of frigid coal, Lady Stark found Brienne standing beyond the remains fallen outlaws.  Her gaze was unwavering as she raised a decrepit hand to her throat, pushing the bony fingers deep enough to pierce the grayed flesh.

“Why is he alive?”  Brienne could scarcely make out the words.  Thoros turned his eyes to the ground before looking upon her with a certain sorrow.

_I chose the sword_ , she remembered.  _But I can’t so much as raise my voice against him._

“I’ve brought him to you, my lady,” she bowed her head, unwilling to look upon Jaime standing beside her, to find the loathing in his eyes.

“But why is he alive?”  _Oathbreaker.._ the wind whispered in her ear.

“No matter,” Thoros turned to her.  “We have rope and plenty of trees to choose from.  Lady Brienne has fulfilled her part well enough.”

“I kept my vow to you as best I could, my lady,” Brienne’s voice shivered as she knelt.  Droplets of rain flew from the tips of her hair as she desperately shook her head.  “But I beg you reconsider.  As I told you before, Ser Jaime is not the man he once was.”

With long, bony fingers, Catelyn removed her hood, revealing wrinkled flesh grayed in death, and crimson scratches deep to the skull.  Parts of bone were left exposed, as though the crows had torn away the skin, as though she’d ripped the hair clean from its roots.  And Brienne could hear Jaime shuffle behind her.

“Lady Stark..” was all he could muster, barely a whisper.  Again, she lifted her rotting hand to the black slit on her throat, hissing, screeching.

“My lady says he’s done enough in half a lifetime for three men to hang,” Lemoncloak interpreted with a smug grin.  Jaime took a step forward, cocking his head to the side.

“Then it must be a shame she has only one.”

Warily, Brienne watched the ground, and the droplets of rain that rippled into larger puddles swirling with the blood of the dead.  And she heard Catelyn’s rasp, cold as ice.

“She says you promised never again to raise arms against Stark nor Tully—”

“And I’ve kept that vow,” Jaime agreed.  “One of the few, I suppose. I claimed the Riverlands without raising a single sword.  As for your brothers, lovestruck Edmure will live out his days at the Rock with Rosalin and their child—”

“After you threatened him with the trebuchet,” she heard Lem utter.

“An idle threat..” Jaime’s voice seemed to shake.  “Necessary for peaceful surrender.  Surely not something you know much of,” he turned, surveying the slain men at his feet.  “Also, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know the Blackfish slipped away before the surrender.  All in all, Lady Stark, what’s left of your family is alive and well.”

_Ser Jaime made that vow drunken and worn at sword point in a rank dungeon, and he kept it._   She wanted to turn to him, to nod and smile, but she couldn’t bear to look at him.  _Not when I’ve broken so many._

“Fuck the Riverlands,” Lem bellowed.  “She’s talking about her son.  How he was slain.”  Lemoncloak thumbed the hilt of his sword, as though his fingers itched for vengeance.

“..Slain?” Jaime paused, sucking in a long breath.  “Bran Stark was—“

“The Young Wolf, you mean?” Lem interrupted.  “Perhaps you recall him capturing you at the Whispering Wood after slaughtering your men?  I heard you wept like a babe.”  Haughtily, Lem began to chuckle, but Thoros’ face was stern as he raised a single hand.

“My lady,” Jaime scoffed.  “I don’t recall your sight so poor in life, but you must be blind to think anyone but Tywin Lannister had a hand in the Red Wedding.”  Catelyn’s eyes froze upon him, and she raised her bony fingers to hiss, making a sound worse than a thousand snakes feeding upon the dead.

Shaking his head, Lem turned to Thoros, confused, with his mouth agape.

“Lord Bolton named you as he put his blade through Robb Stark’s heart,” Thoros said finally, his voice flat and scarily calm.

Jaime opened his mouth as if to speak.  _Of this, he is innocent._   Brienne was sure of it, and she stepped forward.

“Ser Jaime was with me, captured by the Bloody Mummers on our way to King’s Landing, and sick from his lost hand.  I am certain he had no part in your son’s death, my lady.”  She felt her jaw clench, her heart pound, and fists tighten.  “I am the one who’s betrayed you,” her eyes burned with tears.  “Let Jaime go, along with Ser Hyle and Podrick.  You may hang me in their stead.”

She refused to believe the vile men told it true, that Lady Catelyn would go back on her word.  To her side, she heard Jaime whisper, “Don’t be ridiculous,” but she ignored him, watching Catelyn’s coal eyes and sickly, gashed face.

“My lady..” Thoros spoke softly, approaching her with eyes downcast.  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“It’s a fair deal,” Brienne insisted, desperately.  “She sent me to return her daughters, and I’ve found neither.  Worse yet, she was slain while under my protection.  The rope is a far better death than I deserve.”

“Lady Brienne..” Thoros started again, tentative, as though he spoke to a frightened child.  Catelyn’s hand raised to her decrepit throat.

“You took too long,” she rasped and hissed.  And Thoros paused, his gaze locking with her own.

“They’re dead, my lady.  Hanged,” Lemoncloack added, grimly.

_Hanged.._ Suddenly, her legs felt weak, her eyes grew wide with shock and she felt as though her very heart had been ripped from her chest.  Hyle Hunt was not some great man, but he’d done Catelyn Stark no wrong.

_Hanged.._ the word echoed until it nearly lost its meaning.  _And Podrick was just a boy.._

Her body began to sway and her head swam, as though she was drowning in the droplets of rain that soaked her face.  Again, she fell to her knees.

“He was just a boy..” she whispered, behind her wet, matted hair.  And sour tears began to streak her face.  The world could have stopped then and Brienne was like to never notice.

“You hanged a child?,” she heard Jaime ask, incredulously.

“And you pushed one from a tower,” Lemoncloak sneered.

Catelyn Stark stood as though sculpted from ice.  “Hang them both,” she hissed over the men, and Brienne knew the words well.  Hesitantly, Thoros began to stall and protest.

“My lady..” he nearly begged.  “You will find no peace in this.”

_She made me a promise.._ Brienne watched the ground, behind the rain that streamed from her hair.  _A promise before the gods.._

“Hang them,” Catelyn insisted, her stare as cold and barren as the North.  “Kingslayer first, then the Oathbreaker,” she said.  “Let her watch him swing.  Show her what her broken vows have bought before she joins him.”  Her bony fingers pressed so hard into the dead skin of her throat that a stream of black blood drained from the old wound.  And the more the dead woman spoke, the more Brienne understood.  Without wasting a breath, Lem moved to Jaime, grasping his arms tightly against his back.

She could hear Jaime shout, _Take me.. Let her live.._ but his words were mostly lost amongst the heavy pattering of rain.

_No_ , Brienne thought fiercely, _too many have died because of me._ Something began to boil within her, blinding her.  _There will not be another._ She could feel it rising in her throat, mixing with smoke from a wood fire gone out in the storm, bringing salted tears to her eyes and burning her mouth until she began to choke.

“He was just a boy..” she whispered again, angrily, from behind soaked tendrils of hair.  Then she shot to her feet.  Her hand gripped Oathkeeper’s hilt with white knuckles, and she forced her eyes shut, pushing the sword with all her strength.  Even when the blade met resistance with a sickly bite, she refused to let go.

For a moment, she stood, feeling the wind whip across her face, the rain wash over her skin, holding the weight on her sword with nothing but locked knees.  Only when her hand brushed against wet, coarse wool, when she felt the sword burning against her gripped fingers, did she open her eyes.

Oathkeeper’s hilt pressed into Catelyn’s breast, its blade pierced through her back.  And somehow the sword was alive with roaring flames so bright they lit the night sky.  The steel was red hot in her hand and should have seared her skin, but Brienne scarcely noticed.

Catelyn’s lips were only inches away, gasping as black pools of thick blood trailed down her neck.  But her face was soft, elegant.  She was again the noble woman Brienne promised to serve, promised her sword when they’d fled Renly’s camp so long ago.  Her hair flowed over her shoulders, a deep Tully red, her eyes calm with understanding wrinkles from years of reverent smiles.  From this close she was almost alive, peaceful, and as beautiful as the Mother.

With a shaking arm, she grasped at Catelyn’s waist, easing her quietly to the ground, and gasping between choked sobs.  _Oathbreaker.._   Brienne thought she heard, echoing in the wind amidst the dead woman’s final breath.

Soon, everything was a blur, lost amongst endless tears and rain.  Her chest heaved as she knelt, clutching Catelyn’s body.  “I’m sorry..” Brienne whispered as she wept.

Oathkeeper had fallen to her side, no longer aflame, in a mix of clay sludge and blood black as night.  _Eddard’s blade..  and Catelyn’s blood.._

All at once she was floating and sinking, dying and living.  She could hear Lem pleading for the Lord of Light to bring Stoneheart back.  He’d pushed Jaime to the ground beside her, scared senseless of a Brotherhood with no leader, and no purpose.  But Thoros had made no move, standing tall as the rain washed over him, trickling into murky, wet puddles at his feet.

In the distance, Brienne could faintly hear men yelling and sloshing, singing some bawdy tavern song, but none of it seemed real.

“Run, my lady.”  Thoros’ voice sounded as though it was miles away.  Even if she’d tried, Brienne knew she couldn't move, with her knees anchored to the ground, her head hung in shame.

“Harwin and his men are coming.  He won’t hesitate to take your head when he finds his Lady Stark like this,” his voice only echoed in her head, as if he were some hazy dream.  “As R’hllor wills it, we will meet again,” she heard him insist. 

Brienne could feel Jaime hastily tugging at her shoulder, his curses rasping in her ear.  But her legs felt as though they were made of iron.  Still, he pulled at her, until her backside fell in the mud, until she could feel her feet moving beneath her, fast and unwieldy.  

_I will find them, my lady,_ one last promise, as the rain threatened to drown her with every leaden step. _I will find your daughters and I will keep them safe._


	9. Jaime IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize for taking so long to get this one out. I had a lot of stuff going on and just didn't have the time to give it the effort I really felt it needed for a little while. This was a tough chapter to write, but hopefully it's worth the wait.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Enjoy!

“We’re stopping here,” Jaime announced, pulling his reigns to a large boulder near a rippling river.  The wench seemed to slouch the more they continued to ride, and Jaime was growing quickly tired of her morose silence.  She hadn’t looked so lifeless since she heard of Catelyn’s first death.  _And this time, it was her own hand gripping the sword._

Four nights had passed since they ran from the camp.Four nights of pounding hooves, and watching over their shoulder, jolting at every rustle in the trees, every night bird’s song.

Brienne hadn’t looked upon him in days, keeping her eyes downcast, stinking of guilt.And she’d spoken only once, when their pace had slowed and the darkness shrouded them both.

_I thought I could save them..I thought I could save us all.._ the words had spilled unbidden from her lips, quietly, as if it were a prayer.

And some deep part of her believed it, no doubt.Believed she could bargain for their lives with a woman long dead.But the wench was likely steps away when Catelyn strung the boy up. _With the burn still fresh on her neck._

Slowly, Brienne began to dismount, groaning with each movement.

“Careful, wench,” Jaime extended his good hand and gripped hers tight as her muddy boots stomped the ground.“I don’t believe we’d make it back to the Isle tonight.” _Bloody stubborn woman._

Covered in dirt, and dried, crusted blood, with her hair a knotted mess, and her skin a sickly pale, she looked as though she’d been long dead herself. _And she nearly was._

Silently, she rifled through her saddle bag, pulling Oathkeeper from a rolled fur and clutching at her side.Jaime could no longer look at the thing without remembering it blazing in her hand, dripping with Catelyn’s blood.

He’d snuck the blade from her pack as she stole a few hours of fitful rest one afternoon, and let his fingers had trace over the steel as he brought it to his nose, searching for the faint scent of wildfire.But it smelled only of forged metal and old blood.Futilely, he’d even swung the blade around, hoping it may come alive once again, but in his own hand, it remained nothing more than finely crafted Valyrian steel.

_Praise R’hllor_ , Thoros had whispered when the sword ignited in the dark rain.The other dolt in the rancid yellow cloak had stood by stupidly with his mouth agape.And Jaime wasn’t certain what any of it had meant.If it had even happened at all..

And Brienne hadn’t seemed to notice at all, grasping it now no differently than she had before, as she leaned against her horse, wobbling as though the strength in her legs had gone.

“Sit,” he told her, draping a crimson cloak over the bank near the large boulder.

“You don’t have to stand by and watch over me, ser.”

“Why would I want to watch you when I have this lovely river instead?”He sighed, immediately regretting his words.“Forgive me, my lady.That was unkind.”

“It doesn’t matter..” she mumbled.Her head hung, and her dirtied hair danced in the wind, covering her face.“I was alone when I sought you at Pennytree, and I managed to survive then.  I'll be fine on my own,” she mumbled.“Go, return to your men.Certainly they can protect you best.”

“ _Gods_ ,” he groaned.“Don’t remind me of them.” _More Frey than Lannister, every one._ Each siege had been a joke, not a stand.Just the thought of Edmure Tully on the gallows day after day with his head rested in the rope nearly made him laugh with shame.“They couldn’t protect a sweetbread from a well-fed child,” he scoffed.“Besides, I won’t leave you alone in the woods like this.What if some hungry bear were to find you here?” Jaime asked with a slight grin, leaning his head against the boulder.“I don’t think you’d be so lucky this time, wench.”

“The Vale, then.Get me there and your debt will be paid.”

“What debt?”Jaime shook his head.

“Whatever it is you think you still owe me.The thing that keeps you here long after you know the truth of me.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That I looked you in the eye and lied to you.That I brought you to Catelyn Stark without a word,” her eyes searched the ground.“You nearly died because of me.”

“I don’t recall you once looking me in the eye, wench.I don’t think you could if you tried.”

“And that I left them behind..” Brienne continued, mostly to herself.“Ser Hyle, Podrick.. “She could barely speak the boy’s name without her voice breaking.“If I had just stayed on the trail maybe I could have returned in time and fought for them.. saved them,” she nearly choked on the words.“But instead..I’m the one still alive.. I protected no one.”

Slowly, she reached a large hand to her cheek, pushing soiled hair from her eyes.And when he looked upon her, he saw a bit of himself there, slumped against the rock.A brash and lithe boy of seven-and-ten seated upon the iron throne with legs crossed, with his king’s blood dripping down the cold steel of his blade.The day all those fragmented illusions of virtuous knights and great kings had crumbled at his feet once and for all.The moment Ned Stark entered the Great Hall and found him on that damned chair.

_Kingslayer.._ Somehow the name still stung after all the years past.Somehow he’d expected to be named a hero instead.

“You protected me,” he said, plainly, looking over his golden hand.

“Marched you straight to the noose, more like.”

“And yet, here I stand,” he turned to her, eyes meeting for a moment before she looked away.

“Right,” she sighed.“It was Catelyn’s body that fell beneath my blade.”There was a sadness in her eyes, a worry.She’d thought about little else since they had fled, and he could see it in the way she sat, and hear it with each word she spoke.

“Stoneheart, you mean,” Jaime said, rifling through a saddle bag, and pulling out a few bandages.“And what a fitting name it was.Come closer.Let’s have a look.”

Deftly, his fingers tugged at the dressing on her cheek.Beneath the gauze, the wound was still pink and soft, maybe a bit angrier than when they’d left the isle.

“How is it?” her voice was flat.

“It will leave quite a scar.” _And it won’t be the only one._ “But the worst of it has passed.We’ll wash it out with water tonight and hope it does well enough.And your ribs?”His fingers reached for the hem of her muddied tunic without pause, lifting the fabric just high enough to see the angry red welt of healing bones and scraped skin.

“Still tender?”

She nodded slowly, watching his fingers as they went to her hair, pulling off a bit of dried mud from the dirty strands.

“Gods, you need a bath.”

“As if you smell of roses,” she muttered, causing Jaime to snort, as he turned to the river, watching clear water wash over the rocky bank.Without a word, Jaime pulled off a boot with his good hand and threw it to the side, then reached for the other.

“What are you doing?” Brienne shot a quick look to his bare toes.

“Bathing, wench.And I’d advise you to do the same.This place is rather nice,” he saidindifferently, pulling off his mud-stained tunic and golden hand.Brienne’s cheeks began to flush wildly as she slowly rose to stand.

“I’ll wait for you to finish,” she said, intently studying the ground.

“Am I truly so revolting?We’ve bathed together before.”

“And I doubt you remember much from it at all.” _You’d be quite surprised_ , he thought, tugging at his breeches.

Standing with nothing to cover him but the remaining rays of sun and the gently blowing wind, he inched his toes into the flowing water.Soon, it rushed over his legs, then his chest, and the feel of it was crisp and freeing.

“I’ll turn away, wench, and not open my eyes until you’ve slipped into the creek.”

“No,” she said without hesitation, standing frozen with her back turned.

“Are you quite sure?I feel clean already.”

“Quite,” she spat.With a splash, he patted his face with wet hands, dissolving the mud caked on his skin and in his beard.

“I’m not sure how you’ll wash yourself, then.You can barely get off your horse, after all.Perhaps some friendly trout will swim by and ask to help.”He dipped his head under the water, and ran his fingers through his hair, freeing the sludge.When he surfaced and dried his eyes, he saw Brienne standing at the bank, biting her lip a bit, and eyeing him warily.

“You have to promise you won’t look,” she warned.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen be—”

“Promise,” she insisted, her eyes wide and pleading.

“My lady,” Jaime smiled and tipped his head.“You have my word.” _Not that it means much._

“Turn around, then,” she ordered desperately, thumbing the hem of her tunic.And he did, still scrubbing the dirt from his dense beard.He could hear her frustrated grunts behind him, her soft groans of pain.

“Need help?” he asked, biting his lip.

“No,” she snapped.

Leaning to his side, he stole a quick glance.Unclothed and bent at the waist, she tugged at her breeches slowly, pulling them toward her ankles.Her legs were long, and muscled, but almost graceful.Her back nearly sculpted, yet slightly feminine.Suddenly, Jaime was glad for the chilly water.He shook his head, and lifted his hand to wash his neck, and heard her splash behind him, lowering herself into the river.

“Ready now?” Jaime asked, turning to face her before she could protest.

The water shimmered with a slight green hue, but did little to hide her silhouette beneath the ripples, the swell of her hips, the small, round breasts.Quick as he could, he turned his gaze away, hearing her light groans as she reached for her back.

“Turn around,” Jaime commanded as he snatched the pumice from her hand.For a moment she stood before him with a furrowed brow, eyeing his hand.

“I’m not an invalid,” she spat.

“No?Bend over and scrub between your toes, then.” _Why do I even bother with this one?_ he thought, futilely.“Stop being so stubborn,” he placed his palm on her shoulder, facing her away.“I’m only trying to help.”

She was still weak, and easily pushed along the slippery rocks of the river floor with each brush of the stone across her back.But her skin was soft, smooth as he slid his shortened arm around her waist to keep her steady.

“Lacking in faith for Trout these days, wench?” he nearly whispered in her ear, pulling her a bit closer.Beneath the water, he could feel the swell of her buttock ghosting across his hip, her long leg brushing against his knee, and heard her suck in a shaky breath.

“Sorry, my lady.That was in poor taste,” he shook his head slightly in the silence, passing the pumice across her back, and drifting down to her waist.“But you must know that creature was not Catelyn Stark, just a dead woman wearing her face.”

Brienne turned to him, her mouth stony and still, her eyes seemed to linger heavily on the water. _Lovely, sad eyes._

“Think of all the innocent men you saved from her rope.” _But don’t expect their thanks_ , he thought, almost bitterly _._

“Did that make it easier for you?” she asked, her voice was nothing but a soft whisper over the sound flowing water.

“What?Killing Aerys?” Jaime frowned.“Maybe a bit.Until each one would whisper as I passed.Until I heard the things they named me,” his palm wiped over her arm, sending trails of water running down her skin.“But the worst of it was that I knew they told it true.Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms knew he was mad.But it was my knee that bent before him that day, and it was my sword that met his throat.”Her eyes were wide and honest as she watched him speak.

“And I was so proud to be a member of his guard at first,” he laughed a bit, remembering the morning he’d read the message, how his fingers had shook as he broke the King’s seal and unfurled the parchment.“I wanted to be just like Ser Arthur Dayne.Or Duncan the Tall, and all the Kingsguard of old that I’d heard tales of as a boy.But Westeros was a different place when I said those words,” his voice trailed.The wench knew the rest of that story better than most.

Throughout his rambling, his grip on her waist had tightened, pulling her so close that their chests lightly brushed.In the slight remaining sunlight, he could see her mouth softer than before, her head tilted in such a way that her grown, flaxen hair brushed her shoulders, and pale neck peaked from under thin, wet tresses.

“You remind me of them, you know,” he murmured.“Not the knights from the songs.The songs never tell it true.But the truly great ones.All honorable and valiant, but not completely senseless.”

Gently, his fingers moved to trace her cheek, pushing unruly locks of hair from her face.Soft moonlight glistened in her eyes, reflecting the calm waves around them, and her lips parted as she took in a measured breath.

“I was ready to hang if it meant you lived,” he heard himself whisper as his eyes closed and his lips pressed against hers, soft and timid.

It was a tender thing, and he wasn’t sure what had overcome him, but the feel of her lips against his, all slow and unsure, made him want to pull her closer until not even a slip of water would come between them.

Something about it reminded him of innocent kisses from long ago.Kisses he’d shared as a boy on the Rock.Kisses he’d stolen, and kisses he’d snuck.Kisses where lips and skin were never close enough, and the ones he never wanted to end.Those kisses been innocent once, he supposed.Before Cersei had begun to steal them for herself, and held each one like a pouch of Gold Dragons.And long before she’d shared them with others.

_And what would Cersei say of this,_ some small voice whispered in the back of his mind as he felt their lips meet again.The thought struck him like a hard slap to the face.

“It’s growing dark,” he said as he pulled away.His voice was oddly formal, and he put his arms at his side, watching only the ripples of the river.“We should dry ourselves before the water gets too cold.”

He refused to look upon her as she stood before him, calm and still, with gentle waves crashing against the skin of her breast.Or as she turned away, slowly wading to the bank with the last rays of sunlight glimmering against her back.

Firmly planting his feet into the river floor, Jaime doused his chin in frigid water, rubbing fingers over his eyes, and battling regret.

_It was only a kiss,_ he assured himself.Even if his body had yearned for more.But she was just a maid, and he’d taken a vow.

_I was right to end it there.._

As he closed his eyes tight and wiped them dry, a beautiful, but wicked grin flashed before them, with familiar lips that seemed to curl and laugh.  

_But I’d be a fool to think a piece of skin and some old words stopped me._

On the edge of the bank, Brienne stood with hunched shoulders covered by a thick blanket of fur.And watching her there with her head hung and her body slumped at the waist felt like a blade shoved deep in his belly. _She was already broken without your help_ , he thought sadly. _But I was right to end it there.For her sake most of all._

He wanted to say something to break the awful silence, to hear her voice again, maybe assure her nothing had changed, but the words never came.Instead, he stood watching over the water as the light from the stars sparkled against its surface in the growing night.

“Did you mean what you said?” she finally spoke, her wet hair tossed carelessly over her shoulder. _I’ve said many things_.

“Of course.I’d prefer us not to wake as a block of ice, wench.”

“No,” she whispered.“What you said before,” her breath left her lips in small wisps dancing in the cold night air.“That you were ready to die if I could live.”

_What is it about a bath that forces me to spill truths?_

“Is that surprising?” he asked, running fingers through his beard.“If I recall, you said you were ready for the noose yourself if Catelyn let me go.”

“I was,” she said, taking a step toward him.“She didn’t know you as I did.And you had no reason to die by her hands.”The thick fur left her shoulders exposed, balancing flickering beads of water on her skin.She stood so close his fingers ached to reach for her, and pull her close, but he tangled them in his hair instead.

“Neither did you,” he softly whispered as he watched the ground.“Don’t ever try to give your life for mine again.”

“I can’t promise that,” she mumbled.“I’m finished with vows I don’t intend to keep.”

_Keep saying these things and I may break one tonight_ , some deep voice within him growled until he forced his eyes away, avoiding the uncertain gleam he knew he’d find in her gaze if he dared to look.Though, he could still see her hands clasped at her chest, the long, pale fingers curled around the blanket of fur, clutching it closer.And he could see her shoulders turn to walk away.

_I was right to end it in the river_ , he thought again, taking in a jagged breath. _I was right to end it._ The words repeated in his head so many times, yet he still couldn’t bring himself to believe it.It was a cruel thing, watching her stand before him, cold water dripping through her flaxen hair onto the freckled skin of her back turned away, and all the while struggling to keep his good hand at his side.And Jaime was nothing if not sick of cruelties.

Taking a step, he reached out to her with his right hand, with phantom fingers that itched to once again feel the warmth of another, to wrap around a lover’s waist, and pull her to his lips.But it was only the puckered, grotesque skin of his stump that brushed against her shoulder, and a ghost of a hand that felt nothing at all.

Without thinking, he pulled his shortened arm back at his side, expecting her to wince at the sight of it, to tell him to get it off her, with a poorly hidden and disgusted curl of her lip.Instead, she met only his eyes, wide and honest.

_I was wrong to end it_ , he thought, pulling her close, encircling his arm around her, claiming her lips once again.But this time, it wasn’t some timid thing, asking permission with chaste closed-lips.This time, his fingers tangled in her wet hair, his teeth nipped at her bottom lip, and and his tongue pressed into her mouth, heated and unashamed.

The force of it pushed her back a step just to keep her balance, and he followed, easing her to the crimson cloak spread out on the bank until she laid flat on her back.His lips and tongue pressed just below her ear, causing her to sigh as he divested the fur from his waist and draped it over his back, covering them both from nothing but the sound of flowing water, wind-rustled leaves and the eyes of stars.

No one had ever responded to his touch quite like this, arching against him, shuddering under his mouth, looking as though his lips were the reason she still lived.Her damp skin brushed rigidly against him, shattering the lingering thoughts of vows and honor.Thoughts of the past.And he kept kissing her, all hurried and fervent, lying naked beneath the fur, until he heard only the pounding of his heart in his ears, and felt only the press of desperate lips, thrilling him more.Until he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

In the soft glow of moonlight, he glimpsed her white pale skin, freckled, bruised and scarred.Breasts, small as he’d remembered from the bath so long ago, and hair between her legs still wild and unruly.But her long legs laid out, thick and strong, corded from years of practice.His fingertips traced the line of it, listening to her pant in his ear, feeling her slender fingers tangle in his hair.

_Push me away_ , some meager voice wanted to tell her as he spread her thighs, and pressed his lips against the bud of her breast. _Don’t let me ruin you._ But her hands were lost along his back, palms flat against his shoulders, pushing him closer.And there was a challenge in her eye.

_No_ , he thought meeting her burning gaze in the night. _A simple coupling won’t ruin her._ She was not fashioned for a soft marriage bed, and neither was he, no matter how many times he’d convinced himself otherwise.The two of them were molded by the Warrior and called by the song of clashing steel.Bound by swords, not cloaks.Oaths, not marriage vows. _And our children bear us no resemblance, and won’t carry our name, but they will drop to their knees when we wield our blades._

His hand gripped her thigh at the thought, and his cock stretched painfully as it brushed against her bare hip.Hastily, his hand traveled between her legs, and he found himself pushing his thumb against her, in the same place Cersei had liked the most.The one she always said would do the job the quickest.It left Brienne breathless and gasping, panting unknown words into his ear.But as her gasps grew more jagged and her lips hasty and thoughtless against his neck, he pulled his hand away and pushed himself inside.The thrill was almost blinding.

Their eyes met as he stilled, letting the choking tightness subside.Some part of him wanted to whisper in her ear, to tell her something that might make her smile, or blush sweetly, but spoken words had left him long ago.Lost in the river with hollow vows and selfish pride.

_I was ready to hang if it meant you lived.._ was the only truth he could remember.His eyes closed at the words playing in his head, and his lips met her neck as he pushed into her again and again, slowly, softly at first, befitting of a maiden’s first bedding, but rough with want.

Her cheeks flushed, and her large teeth bit at her bottom lip to stifle her sighs as his tongue reclaimed the soft skin of her breast.If he tried, perhaps he could see them in a bridal chamber after all, hearing Tyrion just outside the door, drunk and yelling obscene suggestions.But that one was a foolish road to follow.So he watched her instead, how her chin pushed toward the sky, making her neck long and graceful, how her eyes clenched shut and grew tighter with each thrust.

_I want to see you_ , he almost said as he looked upon her closed eyes. _I want to hear you._ Impatiently, he nudged at her jaw with his nose.

“ _Jaime.._ ” she whispered, her voice just a ragged breath, her eyes glassy and dark.Slowly, he traced his fingers from her taut breast down to her thighs, settling again between her legs, and circling his thumb.And soon she was gripping tightly at his shoulders, gasping and wrapping her strong legs behind him as she pulsed, pushing him further, deeper.

“ _Jaime,_ ” she said again, more a sigh than anything, and enough to send him following her over the edge.

Quick as he could, he slid out of her, spilling blood and seed onto the crimson cloak.His breath nothing but a wispy, strangled gasp, as his hand clenched, and his chest shuddered.

_I’ve burdened her quite enough without planting my bastard in her belly,_ he thought, grabbing the corner of the old cloak to wipe the blood from his cock.

“Haven’t you spent your life on a horse?” he grinned, finally reclaiming his voice.“It seems your maidenhead was as stubborn as you.”

She looked at him then with wide eyes, and swollen, red lips that twitched to speak, before she laid on her back.

“That was..” she finally spoke as she hid her eyes away. _Lovely_ , Jaime nearly finished, but let the sound flowing water wash over them instead.“Not what I expected.”

“No?” he asked, watching as he laid beside her, pulling the fur to cover them both once again.

“It didn’t hurt,” she glanced at him.“Well, not really.”

“It might have.If you didn’t want it,” he grinned, resting his head upon her shoulder.“But it wouldn’t have happened if you didn't.”

“And how did you know..” he could hear her voice shake, “that I wanted it?”

_Because you would give your life for mine,_ he thought as he listened to the songs of a hundred bugs scattered along the bank. _And I’d give mine for yours.._ But those words never came to his lips.

“I still have my teeth,” he finally said, muffled by the skin of her neck, and heard her soft laughter above his head as it danced through his hair, warming his chest.He tightened his arm at her waist and for a moment he wondered if this was what it meant to be bound in the eyes of the Seven.To promise another your protection and your life.Not through seals, names, words, or even sworn oaths.But truly joined.With no one to witness but the glowing stars above.


	10. Epilogue

The tavern was quiet, and barely dusted by the last snow storm.  It stood tall and proud, despite looking a bit worn.  _Winter has come_ , Jaime thought, brushing the bits of ice from his tangled hair.  Just a fortnight ago, it was rain that had plagued them, soaking through their breeches, forcing their heels to sink into the mud.  But now the nights had grown so cold that even two heavy furs left their teeth chattering by morning.

Steadily, they walked through the wooden frame and sat at a table.  The room was large and warm, filled with men taking refuge from the long night, and the smell of hot stew and malted ale.  Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a fresh meal to eat, or a feather bed to sleep upon.  Brienne looked hopeful as well, her face soft with a rosy grin, though not quite so rosy as in the shadows of moonlight.  Not that Jaime had seen such a sight as of late.  They’d shared little more than questioning glances, terse words, and an awful sense of uncertainty since that night beside the river.

Still, Jaime never once regretted taking the Maid of Tarth, or listening to tales from her childhood while resting upon her shoulder after, breathing slow until sleep had claimed them both.

He’d tried to think of it as a simple night of lonely passion, or maybe lust built up from battle, but the gnawing in his belly told him he knew better.

_Jaime.._ her breathy whisper would rasp in his ear again and again, and his lips would tingle and twitch, waiting for the feel of hers upon them.  _Jaime.._ his phantom fingers would reach for her in the darkness.

_You stole her maidenhead.  And you broke your vow.  Did you expect her to suddenly begin craving your cock?_ he thought, reaching for a piece of stale bread. _She's not Cersei.._   The cruel emerald eyes flashed in his mind again.  The perfect, wine-stained lips twisted and curled.  He could run across the countryside, watch her plea turn to ash, and lay with another without regret, but his twin would always follow him.  _Even in death, I will never truly be free._

But if he could find Brienne in the night once again, feel her around him, remember her gentle touch..  She may have been weak and broken, but she wanted him then, without question, with nothing to gain.

_If she’d have me, I could bury the past away, one night at a time_ , he decided, glancing up at her eyes, still wide and unsure _.  I could forge something new, something better in its place._

“Soup and ale for you, then?” an older woman stood at the end of their table, breaking his thoughts.  Her hair was disheveled, her dress torn at the edges, and her face red with heat as though she’d been slaving in the kitchens.  Jaime looked at her and grinned.

“If you would be so kind,” he said.  “My son and I will take one of each.”

“Ah, your son, eh?  Strapping lad, that one.  And he has your hair!”  Jaime had to hold the laugh he felt rising in his belly at Brienne’s irritated glare.

The two of them were far too tall and recognizable without some sort of disguise.  Jaime kept his hands, both golden and flesh, covered by worn leather gloves, and let both his beard and hair stay dusty and long.  Brienne had left bits of dirt on her face, and draped herself in rags loose enough to cover any hint of a woman’s shape beneath them.  Still, his fingers itched to graze past her knee beneath the table.

A fire roared in the corner of the room, and a group of men sang along drunkenly with another playing an accordion.  The lyrics were bawdy, and Brienne’s cheeks burned bright as her eyes darted to her hands.

“You’ll enjoy this one when you’re a bit older, son,” Jaime began.  “When you’ve taken a good, strapping wench yourself.”  He half-expected her to grow ghastly pale, or to reach over and crack him across the mouth for that, but instead she snorted into her ale.  It was the first time he’d seen her smile so genuinely in days.

“And mother?” she chuckled.  “Was she a strapping wench?”  Clearly, the ale had already begun to take its toll.

“She was most strapping,” Jaime pushed his foot, nearly brushing over her leg.  “And she had the most stunning blue eyes.”  At that, Brienne looked away, taking another nervous sip.

_If she’d have me.._

“So where is she now?” the serving woman’s voice boomed from the end of the table.  Jaime wasn’t certain how long she’d been standing there holding two bowls of stew.  “Your wife, I mean,” the woman said as she placed the bowls before them.  Quickly, Jaime cleared his throat.

“Died during childbirth,” he lied.

“Gods, isn’t that awful,” she said with a pout.  “Nearly happened to me, too.  Lucky, we were able to get a maester out here before I bled out.  And Seven bless him, the man pushed his horse in the dark of night to get here in time,” she smiled warmly as she reached for their tankards and began to pour them more ale.  Brienne waved her hand to refuse, but the woman was far too lost in thoughts of her past to notice.  “Good on you for respecting her memory, though.  So many men just run off with the next pair of teats fast as they can,” she shook her head.  “That nearly happened to me, too, so I beat my husband with a wooden spoon until he promised to stay,” she rested Jaime’s tankard back on the table.  “You must have truly loved her.”

Amused, Brienne looked at him with her eyebrows raised, her lips forming a slight smirk.

“As any man should,” was all Jaime could choke out as he raised the tankard to his lips to break away from the woman’s admiring gaze.  He began to wonder if she might swoon, with her cheeks all red, and a grin so large she had to bite her bottom lip.  Without hesitation, she grabbed both their hands and squeezed.

“I beg you, stay free tonight.  You two look like you’ve had a run at it, and a man like you is a rare one, indeed.”  _Thank the gods she didn’t grasp the golden hand_ , he thought, letting out a breath.

“Thank you, m’lady,” Jaime met her eager eyes briefly.  “We would gladly take a room for the night.”  Any other time, he would have been suspicious of such a kindness, but something about the woman struck him as genuine, and the inn looked safe enough.  A night spent on a warm featherbed was well-earned by now.

“I’ll have it ready by the time you finish your meal,” she beamed as she excitedly waddled away, with pitcher in hand.

“I think she likes you,” Brienne grinned, dipping her spoon back into the bowl.

“What sensible woman wouldn’t?” he asked, meeting her eyes for a moment before he began to devour his stew.  It was warm and well salted.  Not the best Jaime had ever eaten, but certainly not the worst.  And after having nothing but dried meat and scavenged berries for more than a few nights, the taste of any kind of hot stew was divine.  He moved through the bowl much faster than he expected, and hoped he’d charmed the woman enough for seconds.

Near the fire, the group of singing men had grown quiet, chatting amongst themselves.  The accordion still made errant sounds, echoing through the wooden room, as one man fiddled with it shakily until a familiar, but unpracticed tune began.  Immediately, Brienne dropped her spoon, her eyes grew wide as the drunken men began to sing once again.

 

_And who are you,_

_the proud lord said,_

_that I must bow so low?_

 

Jaime could feel his stomach begin to turn as he casually thumbed the hilt of his blade.  Hurriedly, he scanned the room, hand ready.  Six men sat near the fire, swaying about, singing in drunken slurs.  A younger woman holding a babe sat just steps away, stroking the child’s cheek.  For her sake, Jaime hoped the men wouldn’t stir.

_I shouldn’t have accepted that damn room_ , he thought, annoyed.  Lately he’d despised singers even more than archers.

 

_Only a cat_

_of a different coat,_

_that’s all the truth I know_

 

Some of the words were mumbled, others were wrong.  But the men stayed, gathered around the accordion, and paying the two of them no mind.  _Awful choice of song_ , Jaime thought, relaxing his hand a bit.

“Gods, I’ve heard the damn thing enough times, you’d think I’d know it better than this,” the one with the accordion announced, bringing his fingers to a halt.  And the men groaned.

“I’ve forgotten most of the words anyway,” a louder, seemingly drunker man yelled.  Another in tattered robes sat on the outskirts of the group, and slammed his ale on the table before him.

“Fuck the Rains of Castamere.  It’s a bleedin’ awful song.  The Lannisters aren’t half so scary without Lord Tywin anyway.”  _This man tells it truer than he knows._

“Even the Imp is nowhere to be found,” another man muttered.  “He killed his own father and disappeared.  I bet he’s across the narrow sea by now, buried in Braavosi whores.”

“Doubt he’s enough man to please women like that, though,” another chuckled.

_Tyrion would have had some sharp jest for that._ But the younger brother Jaime knew was lost long ago.  His short body cast a tall, jagged shadow as the stormed the the dungeon that night.  _To father’s room_.  Jaime shook his head and swallowed the bitter words filling his mouth.

“And I heard the Kingslayer abandoned his troops in the Riverlands, too.”  Quickly, Brienne’s eyes shot to him, changing from an understanding softness to a harsh stare.

“Did you hear about what happened to him, though?” an older man from a table nearby asked.  He was maybe five and fifty, with a mass of knotted, gray hair, wearing a tattered yellowing robe, threadbare with age.

“What?” another barked with a self-satisfied smirk.  “That he fucked his own sister?  And that our last two kings are nothing more than a squirt in the Queen’s cunt?”  The men laughed, and some raised their tankards.  “That’s no news, old man.”

Jaime kept his eyes focused on the stew, remarkably calm, and rather proud of himself for it.  He could feel Brienne’s eyes on him, almost a warning.

“Gods, no,” the man in robes said.  “About him and the Brotherhood, I meant.”

“I heard they disbanded,” another joined in.  “The Kingslayer did that?”

“In sorts,” the man slurred.  Jaime lifted his head a bit to listen.

“It was the Hangwoman, I heard.  She had some sworn sword, a woman no less, if you can believe it!”  A few of the men chuckled.

“A woman?” roared a man sitting near the fire.  “You’ve had too much ale, old man.

“It was a woman,” the robed man insisted.  “An ugly one, big as a man.  That’s how Tyrg told it, and he trades often with the Brotherhood.  Anyway," he waved a wrinkled hand, "she was supposed to kill the Kingslayer and bring his head as proof, but turns out she’d fallen in love with him instead.  So she stole some red priest’s flaming sword and took off her lady’s head.”

_Where do these ridiculous tales begin?_ Jaime wondered, sipping at his soup.

“You mean to say the leader of the Brotherhood was slain by a woman with a flaming sword, and strong enough to cut a head clean from its shoulders?” said the man near the fire.  _She could take on every one of you tonight,_ Jaime thought, tightening his grip on his spoon.

“Aye,” bellowed a bearded man, “I’ve heard of her.  The Kingslayer’s whore, the ugliest woman the Seven Kingdoms has seen yet, and taller than most men, too.”  Beside him, he felt Brienne stiffen and lower her head.

“From what I hear, the Kingslayer had better close his eyes and think of his sister, else wise, I don’t think he could get it up.”

Jaime nearly choked on a bit of stew.  Confident, he turned to the ragged group.

“That’s not how I heard it told,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.  Brienne began to shuffle beside him, nudging at his ankle with her foot.

“And what’s your name, then?” the man in robes asked.  And Jaime paused, taking in a breath.

“Goodwin,” Jaime finally said.  “Arthur Goodwin.  And this is my son, Galladon,” he reached to pat Brienne on the shoulder, heartily.

“The gods have certainly blessed you with a strong son like that!”  Jaime swore he could hear Brienne groan a bit under her breath.  “Then tell us your version, good man!”  _Good man_ , Jaime smiled.  He couldn’t remember the last time someone called him that.

“Well,” he began.  “I heard the lady knight was good and honorable, that she fulfilled the oath given to her, and brought Jaime Lannister to the Brotherhood, just as she was asked,” Jaime’s eyes wandered across the room at the folk.  They were shoddily dressed in just a bit more than rags, and for some, he wondered when they last bathed.  _And when did I last bathe?_ he wondered suddenly before he took a deep breath and continued.

“He tried to seduce her along the way, maybe in some hope of breaking free.  Though, I heard he quite fancied this lady-knight.”  With a sidelong glance, he could see Brienne blushing beside him as she nervously fidgeted with her spoon.

“It never worked, though.  And she brought him to the Brotherhood where he was sentenced to the rope.  He killed the Hangwoman and half the Brotherhood just to keep his own wretched life.”

The woman in the corner seemed utterly disinterested in his story, touching the babe’s hair as it suckled on her breast.  But the men had stopped to listen, setting tankards of ale on wooden tables.  The fireplace crackled in the silence with tongues of fire far less glorious than those that had sprung from Oathkeeper’s blade.

“So the red priest found the Kingslayer and drove his flaming sword clean through his heart, killing him there,” Jaime said.  “I suppose the gods were finally just.”  The lie flowed easy from his lips, now dull from ale.

“You’re saying the Kingslayer is dead?” asked the man sitting near the fireplace.  And Jaime nodded, solemnly.  “How do you know all of this?”

“I’m just a simple traveling merchant,” Jaime grinned.  “But privy to all sorts of wild tales.”

“What of this mysterious lady-knight, then?” another man near the fire shouted out.

“Pardoned,” Jaime smiled.  “By the red priest, himself.  She was a honorable woman, and true to her lady.  She did all she was asked, and more.  Haven’t heard a thing of her since.”  A few of the men began to nod, and reach for their tankards.

“Quite an odd tale, if you ask me.  Certainly one for the songs,” Jaime said, smiling at Brienne, uncertain, but proud.  

“Certainly..” the accordion player echoed, wistfully, staring into the flames.

Slowly, Brienne turned to him, smiling back.  Her eyes glistened with threatening tears.  Beneath the table, he found her hand, and rested his upon it, and soon he felt their fingers entwine, grasping tight.

“Lets hear that thrice-damned Castamere song again!” a large, bearded man bellowed, cheerfully slamming his ale onto the table before him.  “An ode to the Kingslayer!  May he rot in all of the seven hells!”

“Hear, hear,” the men yelled, raising their tankards.

And Jaime lifted his ale with a grin, toasting with the rest of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! Hope you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> I guess I was a bit short-sighted saying I had this finished and waiting to be posted initially because I actually ended up changing quite a bit to try to give it more impact, but the bones of the story stayed the same. Like I said before, I'm sure this is far too fluffy and shippery of an outcome for canon, but I do hope these two can at least realize how important they are to one another, and see each other as equals. Because I think that's something that neither of them have ever really experienced with anyone else. And sure, there's going to be some insecurity there, some old demons they both have to deal with, but if anyone's strong enough to get past it, it's these two.
> 
> Anyway, I just really want to say thank you to everyone reading, kudos-ing, and commenting. You guys really helped me along, and I appreciate all of you more than I could say. Your feedback makes me happier than a kid on Christmas morning. Seriously.
> 
> And to all of you who stumble across this story sometime in the future, I always appreciate any feedback you want to give, too!
> 
> Keep on canoe-ing it, guys!


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